In the End
by Lono
Summary: Loneliness never felt quite so heavy as when it came time for the world to end.
1. Chapter 1

**_In the End_**

**Disclaimer**: _Sherlock_ and its characters are the property of the BBC and the hive mind of The Almighty Moftiss. No infringement intended.

Unbeta'd (I should really see about finding one... any volunteers? *cough*). All mistakes are my own.

* * *

The universe began violently, but beautifully. And from its violent beginnings, our tiny sun and its planets formed; the products of previous, countless stars' births, lives, and deaths.

The Earth was one such planet built on star dust. And while it was not the first, nor the last, to play host to billions upon billions of heartbeats over its millennia of years, that didn't make the planet's story any less of a wonder.

The unfortunate reality was, however, that when the Earth died suddenly, there were billions of heartbeats that came to an abrupt end with it. And when they learned what was to come with only days to spare, many did not accept it with quiet grace or even grim determination.

Fear, horror, dismay, violence, and denial all had a part in the human experience in those last few days of Earth.

But amidst that heartbreak and confusion, there were still moments of beauty. There were still smiles, and there was still love.

And while each life was touched by both the good and the bad, in the end, this story is only about love.

* * *

When Dylan Thomas wrote that one should not "go gentle into that goodnight," he was probably not facing sudden, unexpected death. He likely meant it in a 'don't just curl up in a ball and whimper when the going gets tough' kind of way.

But telling people to "rage against the dying of the light" was sort of ill advised, poetic as his words were.

Molly Hooper had time to ponder this as she lay in her bed, listening to the sounds filtering in through her flat's thin walls and windows. Breaking glass, car alarms, and yells all meshed into a cacophony of confusion and despair.

The rioting in the streets of London, and, reportedly, the world over, was only getting worse each night.

So, while Molly empathized with every person who had just learned six days ago that his or her life was going to be snuffed out in a matter of seconds, she did find herself blaming Dylan Thomas just a little bit for the upheaval outside.

And she was choosing to attribute her wakefulness to the sounds of violence and confusion.

Certainly, it wasn't her own thoughts.

Molly had never feared the end of her life. A pathologist afraid of death would probably be an awkward mix.

She didn't want to die painfully, of course. She would have much preferred to go in her sleep at the ripe, old age of eighty-five, surrounded by family. Family, who would be sad that they now only had her memory, but not sad by how her life had come to a close. But those cards were effectively off the table, now.

She didn't believe in any sort of afterlife or anything, though it would be lovely if she were wrong on that front.

Molly did have regrets. Of course she did. She was human. She considered herself a whole person without a significant other, but, of course, she had wanted to passionately love and be passionately loved by someone. And now that wouldn't happen.

But that was a regret she was going to do her damnedest not to dwell on.

And she definitely wasn't going to transfer those feelings of regret into pleading despair or acts of violence, vigilantism, or even civil disobedience.

Instead, she was going to continue to go to work for as long as possible and do her job quietly, efficiently, and as well as she'd always done it.

Hopefully the rioters wouldn't burn down the hospital.

Yes, the rioters and the noise and nothing else were to blame for her still being awake two hours before her alarm was set to go off.

The rioters.

The noise.

Not her loneliness.

Sirens bled in with the rest of the tumult and Molly Hooper lay alone and watched the shadows move across her ceiling.

* * *

Someone Molly knew quite well was also awake in those early hours of the morning.

A few miles away, in 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sat in his favorite armchair in the flat's silent sitting room. He stared at the wallpaper over to his right side, picking out subtle imperfections in the fleur de lis print.

His face bore no signs of tiredness. His suit was as crisp as if it had just been pressed, and his alert posture was more fitting for afternoon teatime, not the dark of four-thirty in the morning.

But even though his expression did not betray it, he was feeling a bit… troubled.

Sherlock had never spent much time worrying about his own mortality, save for the Moriarty Incident three years ago. Even then, he had figured out that Moriarty meant for him to die long before their final confrontation, so he'd had plenty of time to figure out a viable alternative.

While his time away from his friends had felt a bit like a death of sorts, he had always had the knowledge that, if he didn't actually die in the process, he would be reunited with them eventually.

Now, he knew his death was imminent.

He wasn't too concerned about the actual event. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it, so there was really no use thinking too much on it. Hopefully it would all be rather quick.

But the minute the news had come that the world was ending, everyone Sherlock knew became immersed in his or her own families.

Sherlock and John were fresh from a case, sharing a taxi from New Scotland Yard when they heard the bulletin on the radio. Sherlock remembered now that it had been an unseasonably sunny day, the sky blue and cheerful as they heard the news.

John asked the driver to stop the car and numbly said he was going home to his wife, Mary. He had not been in touch since. Sherlock knew he'd hear from his friend again, but the initial shock had seemingly not worn off yet.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to Cornwall to be with her sister and other, extended family.

She had wept as she said goodbye to Sherlock, kissed his cheek, told him she loved, him, and then assured him not to worry about rent.

His oft-absent filter switched on, and he didn't say aloud that that was obvious, as it was due the day _after_ the impending apocalypse. And if he was honest, that thought hadn't occurred to him at the time of their goodbye, either.

He had watched her taxi drive away and felt nothing but bereft, even though she was only going a couple of hundred miles away.

For the time being.

Lestrade, too, had left town. He had fretted about leaving his job. Ever the dutiful policeman, he felt he was abandoning his post. But his wife, with whom he'd hastened to reconcile upon hearing the news, was from Newcastle, and her parents still lived there.

Sherlock recognized how death might bring about a certain vulnerability in most people. But as a man with no lover and a familial relationship that could not be described by anyone as "close," he had no reason to feel so himself.

So _why_ was he so unsettled?

He cared for his mother.

The same for Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade had become a genuine friend in the years that they had known each other, much as the Detective Inspector might want to coldcock Sherlock on a regular basis.

Mycroft, when he wasn't being too obnoxious, certainly understood Sherlock better than a lot of people.

And John's and Sherlock's relationship was far more of a fraternal one than that of Sherlock's and Mycroft's.

But as he watched all of them turn to their other loved ones now that the end had come, he didn't necessarily feel the acceptance he might have imagined he would.

Sherlock had once commented to John, while the latter forced him to watch some ghastly apocalyptic action film, that he didn't want to be one of the few survivors such stories always cheered on after their plot-devised disasters. Having to fight for a world that would likely not be sustainable for hundreds of years, if ever, just sounded exhausting and needlessly dangerous.

And he wouldn't wish that on any of his friends, either.

Now that he wasn't just imagining it, he supposed he still agreed with that assertion, for the most part.

But there was just _something_ that was keeping him from feeling, well, peaceful—for lack of a better word—about it.

He wasn't going to start railing against the fates for all of his unfinished business, or anything half as dramatic.

But he did feel like _something_ was threatening to go unfinished.

If only he could identify what it was.

Sherlock Holmes listened to the silence around him with nothing but his teeming mind for company.

* * *

John Watson hadn't had any plans to resurface today. Or maybe even the next day, or the day after that.

He was still getting by in a bit of a trance, and hadn't planned to leave his Mary's side until that initial shock had passed. As it was, he'd only emerged from his self-imposed absence because of a phone call from Mike Stamford.

Unable to reach Sherlock on his mobile, he'd had little other choice.

And so, armed with his gun in case any rioting hoards turned violent, John made his way to Baker Street. Fortunately, the unrest had calmed down in the daylight hours. It would likely flare up again as the sun set.

John had convinced himself that Sherlock would probably be holed up with his mother and brother by now, certainly not all by himself.

It was with a stab of guilt that he found his friend in his empty flat, alone.

He chose to ignore the fact that it had been the first place he'd even tried looking.

John stood in the doorway to the sitting room, looking at his friend. Sherlock had not yet acknowledged him, and John wasn't sure if the other man was even aware he had company.

To an outsider, it would appear that Sherlock was just deep in thought about a case or something equally pedestrian. He bore the expressionless face that he often wore when visiting his "mind palace". But it was doubtful that he had many people coming to him with cases now.

As the person who probably knew Sherlock better than anyone else, John already could tell that Sherlock's stillness was not the result of a mystery or puzzle. Or at lease mysteries and puzzles that concerned a crime.

No, this type of stillness was far different.

He looked lonely.

And not just the loneliness that Sherlock usually carried with him. Because he did. He might deny it vehemently, but John knew that Sherlock Holmes was one of the loneliest people he'd ever met.

But this loneliness was different. If John were a fanciful man, he might say it was rather _animal_ in its nature.

Like a feral dog that had been hit by a lorry and left to die on the side of the road, Sherlock probably didn't know why he was in pain or what was causing it. He might not even realize that he was miserable.

But John could tell. He knew why Sherlock was despondent, too. He was the one who had left Sherlock alone for a week to try to process this onslaught of mortality.

John felt a rush of anger with himself and with everyone else who normally spent any time with the man. They had all gotten it in their heads that Sherlock was self-reliant to the point of voluntary hermitage.

And that conviction had enabled John to leave his friend in sitting in that taxi without a second glance as the words of the radio bulletin petered into silence while cries of dismay started to sound.

John couldn't bear to see that expression on Sherlock's face for another moment, so he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

Sherlock hardly even started. He blinked. Once. Twice. And then he turned his head a fraction to look at his friend standing in the doorway.

"John," he murmured. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Sherlock. I… How are you?"

Sherlock looked down and stared at his steepled fingers. He actually looked like he wasn't sure how to respond.

But he managed to do so.

"I've just been spending time with my thoughts, as they say. You've left Mary for a reason, I gather. I wouldn't want to keep you from her. What is the matter?"

It was a rather surprising display of empathy, coming from Sherlock, but John suspected a large part of it was a defense mechanism on his friend's part.

Sherlock seemed to realize that John had caught him in a vulnerable moment and was trying to regroup.

_I'll let you have your way, for now, _John thought to himself.

"Erm… yeah, I've just had a call from Mike Stamford. He's been trying to reach you for the better part of three days now. It's about Molly."

Sherlock and the pathologist from St. Bart's had grown quite close in recent years. This was unsurprising when John learned just how much Sherlock had trusted and relied on Molly's help when he faked his death and overthrew Moriarty's network.

Of course that closeness was all relative—Sherlock would have never been the type to go out and get a pint with his mate, Molly—but he was gentler with her now.

Gentler with Molly than he was with anyone else, in fact.

So gentle that John had sometimes wondered if Sherlock…

He shook his head as he thought on it, feeling a twinge of grief. Even if it was something that might have been, now it would never be and there was no use wondering about it.

The mention of Molly did succeed in getting his friend's attention, however.

"Molly? What of her?"

"Mike is worried about her. The hospital staff is trying to get by with a skeleton crew. It's been a struggle to find people willing work. And those who are working aren't really exhibiting the same drive as before, obviously."

John moved further into the room, once again taking his old armchair before he continued.

"But Molly's the opposite. She hardly ever leaves. Stamford doesn't think she's been sleeping or eating at all. He's tried to tell her that it's probably not crucial that she gather samples and send them away for toxicology tests when the results will never be tabulated. But she's insisting that she follow the normal operating procedure.

"I understand that she's wanting to keep her mind off of things, but I'm worried for her, too, after what Stamford told me. Why isn't she spending any time with family?"

"She doesn't have any family. She's the only child of two, sibling-free parents who are now both deceased," Sherlock explained, looking a bit taken aback to be the one informing _John_ about a friend's personal history.

John blinked at Sherlock before getting back tot the matter at hand.

"Poor Molly…. Well, whatever the case, she's working herself to death—well, a more miserable death—and Stamford was wondering if we could go try to convince her to take better care of herself or something. He's been unsuccessful so far, and wanted us to have a go."

Sherlock resumed his staring contest with his fingers. He was quiet for a moment, as if he was weighing each word.

"I'm not sure I'd be the best person for this. When have I ever offered anyone any sort of comfort? A few words from me and she'll climb into one of the cadaver drawers just to be done with it all."

To an extent, John normally would have agreed. But Sherlock sounded genuinely distraught at this thought. Like he was actually worried that he'd do more harm than good.

"Sherlock, the fact that you're conscious of it makes me think that won't happen. It sounds like Molly is hurting and alone. If nothing else, she deserves to know that we care."

The Sherlock of five years ago would have chafed at the flurry of sentiment they were bandying about, but he'd returned from the dead a changed man.

And the oncoming end of the world apparently had provided another step in his personal evolution.

He glanced up at John and gave a grim nod, and then stood and made his way over to his coat.

He paused and then turned back to his friend.

"It's good to see you, John."

The surprises kept coming, and John had felt the burning pressure of unshed tears over the last several days as it was.

So he blinked his eyes several times and he replied, "You, too, Sherlock."

The two friends left the flat and made their way to Molly Hooper.

The world had eleven days.

* * *

**Note**: I couldn't decide whether to post this as a one-shot or in installments, since it looks like it's going to be bloody long and I'm nowhere near finished. So this is a litmus of sorts to see if I should continue at all.

I decided not to explain what will cause the end of the world. Scientists typically believe there isn't going to be some mass-extinction, planet-exploding event while humans are alive (or ever, until the sun expands and sucks the Earth in with its gravitational pull). So using "artistic license" (read: inability to commit), I am leaving it vague.

The film _Seeking a Friend for the End of the World _gave me the idea for this story. I really recommend everyone watch it. While it is, on the surface, maybe a distressing subject, I think it is one of the loveliest movies I've ever seen, and I wanted to model this fic after that; and that's why I didn't classify it as angst.

As ever, I truly appreciate any feedback, even if it's just you yelling, "Boo!" a la the old crone in the dream sequence from _The Princess Bride. _


	2. Chapter 2

**_In the End_**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

_In the frost on the branches and clotheslines, a fierce little wren is singing loud and high, while his eyes insisting on their own life gave legs to the lie that there is world and time to grow old in its light. _

_~Shearwater, "North Col", __Rook_

* * *

The morgue at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital normally saw quite a bit of traffic, bodily speaking. Not only was Barts a teaching hospital, but it also boasted one of the city's more reputable forensic sciences departments. Investigating officials from New Scotland Yard often had decedents sent to the Barts morgue. Not just because of the hospital's well-trained staff, but also out of sheer habit.

Now, however, the number of bodies coming into Molly Hooper's little corner of the hospital had slowed to a trickle.

Perhaps Death had actually taken a holiday. Perhaps the same biological urge that previously told people, "_It's alright to let go and die now" _had said, instead, _"It's alright to hold on and live now. There will be plenty of time for death very soon."_

Or perhaps the city was too short of any kind of emergency and body retrieval services, so those who found Death already arriving at their doors had to resort to other means.

Molly had flinched at the thought. But it was a very real possibility. She was astounded that London's infrastructure had held up as well as it had so far. That there were still _any _police or medical services available was astounding

All in all, the apocalypse could have been going a lot worse.

But even though deaths had either slowed or were going unreported, living patient loads had only increased. The hospital's remaining staff was stretched beyond its means and they were doing their best to make sure none of the sick or injured languished. But they also had to be realistic.

Molly had been pulling double shifts the past three days. Half her day, she tried to accomplish her normal duties in the morgue and lab (duties that were admittedly dwindling), while the other half she administered triage up in Accident and Emergency.

Each time it fell to her to decide that a patient wasn't sick enough to stay in the hospital's care, she was reminded again why she'd chosen to practice forensic pathology. She'd never felt brave enough to see vivid displays of active suffering.

The comfort the dead gave her was that she'd never had to say "I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do" to a hopeful or weary face.

Now, she was saying it multiple times a day. And worse, still, she was having to say it to people who, had it been any other time, would have been treated and healed with minimal effort.

That, more than anything else she'd seen since they'd announced the planet's imminent end, was hell.

* * *

Molly hurried through the dimly lit basement to the deserted pathology lab. She'd just left the confusion and despair of A&E. In the midday hours, things had slowed and she should have been trying to sleep. But there was always one more thing to do. One more sample to take. One more supply to run.

One more distraction to find.

The minute she stepped into the lab, she made beeline for a stool and sank down on it gratefully. She tried to look at her sheaf of notes that she'd left open, but instead her head bowed wearily.

Molly recognized that she was now at the point of exhaustion that, if she tried to nap, the attempt might be physically painful and she wouldn't achieve any rest at all. But she couldn't seem to make her body follow suit with this admission.

Her whole being ached, but there was nothing for it.

Though, perhaps a glass of water might help.

She made her way over the room's water cooler, making a mental checklist of everything she needed to do in the next half-hour.

Just as she finished filling her flimsy, paper cup with chilled water and was lifting it shakily to her lips, the sound of the lab's doors skidding open startled her. Water sloshed over her fingers as she turned to find out the identity of the intruder.

She'd gotten used to being alone down there over the last week, save for Mike Stamford checking in sporadically. Now, it was a shock to see the two men, who stood just inside the lab, watching her carefully.

Molly had not seen Sherlock Holmes or John Watson in well over a week. This was hardly unusual in the best of times. Now that everything was on its way to hell, she had thought she would likely never seem them again.

She had not been able to tell herself that she was okay with that. But she'd tried.

Now, seeing them—seeing Sherlock, in particular—she didn't know what to do.

"Hello," she greeted quietly.

Up to this point, Molly had tried not to spend much time thinking about Firsts and Lasts. Mortality was something that had always been tangible enough to her, both through her career and the personal losses she'd suffered in her life.

But realizing she was greeting two _friends _for what could, for all she knew, be the last time, she felt another, new weight settle on her shoulders.

She'd never been particularly close with most of her coworkers, and her few other friends were wrapped up in their own families. As a result, she hadn't had much interaction with people beyond the walls of Barts since the news broke.

She hadn't had to spend much time looking into the faces of people she knewand loved; not with the knowledge that soon those faces would be gone, those minds quiet, and those hearts stilled.

Over the past several years, Sherlock Holmes had fostered something. He hadn't meant to (actually, he'd done his best to discourage it), but somehow he'd cobbled together a small, dysfunctional, pseudo-family.

And Molly felt its loss.

Sherlock remained silent, but John shook himself into action. He hurried forward and pulled Molly into a tight hug.

She watched Sherlock from over John's shoulder. He gazed back somewhat impassively.

But Molly could see the dark rings bruising the skin under his eyes. She could see the muscles of his jaw clenched tightly.

He was exhausted and he was sad.

_We're not so different, are we, Sherlock? _She thought to herself.

Finally, she drew away from John and addressed both him and his friend.

"What brings you here? I'm afraid I haven't heard from the police in more than twenty-four hour, so if it's about a case, you might be at the wrong morgue. Our last incoming body was several hours ago. A ninety-two-year-old woman, died of natural causes."

"We came to check on you, Molly," John explained.

She blinked at them in confusion.

"Check on me? Not that I don't appreciate it, but there's not much to check on. I've just been here working. Keeping myself out of trouble. But I heard there's a good riot planned for tonight, though, so there's always hope."

She offered them a weak smile at her poor joke, but neither man responded in kind.

Sherlock finally spoke for the first time.

"Actually, Stamford mentioned to John that you'd been doing more than your share of work here. He wanted us to try our hand at convincing you to go home and get some rest."

Molly and John stared at Sherlock, both a bit surprised that he was the one relaying concern for her welfare.

Molly was the first to shake off her surprise.

"I… I like to keep busy. It keeps my mind off of things."

John turned back around to look at her, his brow wrinkled with worry.

"But the way Mike tells it, you're going kills yourself with exhaustion, Molly. That's no way to help anyone."

She was mortified to feel tears welling up, but she quickly blinked them away. The last thing either man needed was a watering-pot of a pathologist. Every person was carrying the worst kind of burden right now. Molly would be damned if she added to anyone else's load unnecessarily.

"It's important that I stay here. I'm sorry you had to come all the way down here for nothing. I'm really fine, I swear," she said with false brightness. "Now, I don't want to keep you from your wife. I wish Mike hadn't dragged you away from her."

John looked at her carefully and then shook his head in resignation.

"No one dragged me anywhere. We'll go now, but we'll be back to check on you soon. Please, please, try to get some rest. You look awful."

She smiled balefully back at him.

"Thank you. Give my love to Mary."

John nodded, then headed to the door.

Molly made her way back to her notebook, but drew up short when she realized Sherlock hadn't followed John. In fact, he and his friend, who was standing holding the lab door open, seemed to be having a silent conversation; one that ended with John nodding to Sherlock and then leaving the room.

Sherlock turned perfunctorily back to face Molly.

She watched him carefully as she scooted back onto her stool.

"You're not going to change my mind, you know," she said, looking down at the her scribbled notes but not comprehending her own writing.

He only watched her.

"It was nice of you to volunteer to take one for the team, Sherlock, but don't you think you should be with John or your brother now?"

Sherlock loosened his scarf and then made his way over to Molly, shrugging as he started working on his coat's buttons.

"It's important that John spend more time with Mary right now. It's not as if he and I won't see each other again.

"As for my brother," he continued, pulling up a stool alongside hers, "he is over in France with our mother and her husband. Things have been strained between Mummy and me for some time now. I will be glad to see her again, but I'm not rushing over there, either."

Molly could only marvel at someone having such a lackadaisical attitude about family of any sort, but she decided not to express her dismay. Funny how, even in a situation as dire as this, she still wanted to maintain some iota of her pride.

"What are you working on? Can I help?" Sherlock enquired.

Well, she _thought_ she was going to maintain her pride.

"I really don't want to be a pity case, Sherlock," she burst out, taking him by surprise. "When even _you_ feel sorry enough for me to waste your time that is now literally precious, it only confirms to me what people are thinking. Maybe my legacy is to be Lonely Spinster Molly Hooper, but I am not needing comfort for it and I'd really rather not dwell on that, thanks."

Sherlock looked taken aback at Molly's outburst, blinking several times as she wound down.

He didn't move from his newly taken seat as he let her know exactly what he thought about her speech.

"Rest assured, Molly, that I don't do anything out of pity. I've been accused a few times of not having the capacity _for_ pity. And if I remember my life lessons well enough, simply asking a person what she is working on in no way fits the bill of 'pitying.'

"As for your 'comforting the lonely spinster' allegation, I'm not too familiar with palliative care, but I believe it would involve petting your hair and cooing that _it will all get better soon_." He emphasized the last bit with a meepy voice and then continued in his regular timbre, "I don't pity, and I don't offer platitudes. It won't get better. The world is ending."

Molly felt her face contorting into a scowl.

"So you're telling me that you aren't wishing you could race out the door after John right now? I've seen your normal response to my conversation attempts. A few times you've even intimated that you'd prefer bamboo shoots under your fingernails to hearing my inane chatter. And, by the way, the comfort you've just described would work on a hyperactive toddler throwing a tantrum, not a grown woman."

If Sherlock felt any hurt at Molly's disregard for the emotional growth he'd displayed in recent years, he didn't show it. But she felt bad for it, all the same. He had actually been far kinder since his late-night revelation in that very room three years ago, when he'd told her he did count her as a true friend. And she thought she'd gotten over her hurt over his treatment of her prior to that night.

Trust the apocalypse to dredge up old feelings of bitterness.

She sighed and tried to disguise the small massage she gave her temples by leaning over her notebook and resting her head in her hands, her elbows perched on the counter top. She doubted he bought it, but she had to _try_.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I _am _a bit tired, so my temper's a little frayed. I just hate the thought of you wasting your time with me when there are dozens of more important things you could be doing now."

Sherlock's hand reached into her line of sight, sliding the notebook around her right elbow so that he could more easily read her chicken scratch handwriting (the stereotype that all doctors had messy handwriting was apt, at least when considering hers).

"I happen to have some free time at the moment, so there's no waste. And just to clarify, bamboo shoots under the fingernails are terribly painful. I really don't care to repeat the experience. So talk away."

Molly chose to take that as a compliment. Or at least move on from it. She reached over and flipped to beginning page of her notes.

"To answer your earlier question, I've just been trying to do as much as I can with the bodies that we've received. There haven't been many brought in, to be honest," she explained, indicating the meager pile of acquisition folders piled next to them.

"I guess it's good we only have ten and a half days left, because city sanitation will probably be a problem very soon," she continued. "I suspect there might be a lot of people taking it upon themselves to dispose of the dead in the river and non-cemetery grounds.

Sherlock nodded in agreement, then pointed to some scribbling in the corner of her notebook.

"What's this?"

Molly gnawed on her lip for a moment, debating, but then came to a decision.

"Warfarin."

Sherlock nodded, waiting for her to explain further.

"Seven days ago, the morgue received a body. A sixty-four-year-old male named Michael Brown. My postmortem indicated that he'd died of a pulmonary embolism cause by deep-vein thrombosis. He was a pilot, and a clot in the leg proving fatal is not uncommon."

"Why are you still concerned about it, then?" Sherlock asked her.

"The news about the world's end broke a couple of hours after I'd finished the autopsy. The entire toxicology department fled and none of its employees have been back since. Tox screens take several weeks to process, and I didn't even get a chance to send Mr. Brown's blood work up to them. So I was never able to find out…."

Sherlock looked at her, flummoxed.

"You think he was poisoned?"

Molly fidgeted a bit, looking a bit chagrinned.

"Not exactly poisoned. Due to the nature of this particular death's timing, I never got access to any of his medical information. His physician's office shut down, and I've had no time to ask his family for his history. But, Sherlock, he had purple toe syndrome."

This apparently didn't mean much to the man, if his blank expression was anything to go by.

"Purple toe syndrome is a rare reaction to the anticoagulant drug Warfarin and its generics. Cholesterol deposits break loose and then flow into the blood vessels of the feet, causing discoloration, particularly the big toe, but sometimes to the other toes as well. Mr. Brown had it in all but two of his toes."

"And you're sure it wasn't just lividity from blood pooling post-mortem?" Sherlock asked.

Molly's face was eloquent with exactly what she thought of that question.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled before quickly switching back to the matter at hand. "I'm still waiting to hear what's bothering you."

"Well, I've tried to do some of the toxicology work myself the past few days. That's why I'm in here now. The point is, Sherlock, that I can't find any Warfarin in his blood."

"So," Sherlock shrugged, "he discontinued it when he developed this toe discoloration."

Molly shook her head.

"The other thing I found in his blood, or rather, _didn't_ find, was prevalent S proteins. He had a clotting disorder. He wouldn't have discontinued Warfarin without starting something else. Especially not with his job."

Sherlock still didn't look convinced.

Molly stared fixedly down at her notes, as if she was waiting for the answer to scrawl itself next to her own writing.

"There's just something… off about it. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. But don't you think it's odd?"

Sherlock watched Molly, clearly thinking through his answer. Which was a rare thing for Sherlock Holmes to do. Finally, he replied.

"In all truth, I'm not sure what the point is in worrying about it, Molly. What happened to Michael Brown won't matter for many more days. And I'm not convinced there's anything nefarious about this."

His tone was startlingly gentle. More placating than anything she'd heard from him to that point. And it succeeded in sparking her agitation once more.

"So, because the planets about to go up in flames, Michael Brown doesn't deserve the same treatment of those lucky enough to be offed two weeks ago? Here you've given up your one passion, and I'm supposed to follow suit?"

He looked at her sharply.

"That isn't what I'm saying. I'm saying that this is something that is far from guaranteed to have any results that would satisfy your concerns or suspicions. I'm saying that, perhaps, your time would be better spent not working yourself to death, since we have a ready-made, all-inclusive death package coming our way in a few days' time. I'm saying it's an evasion tactic, Molly!"

By the time he finished, his voice was raised to a forceful volume, if not a shout. He had stood up mid speech, so now he was looking down at the still-seated Molly.

She was silent for a long while. The only sounds in the lab came from humming autoclaves and refrigerators. She refused to meet his eyes.

Finally, though, she spoke.

"Maybe you're right, Sherlock. Maybe I am distracting myself. But at least I'm distracting myself with something worthwhile. Without work, I would be sitting by myself in my flat, counting down the minutes to my death.

"I… I can't just horn in on my friends' lives. Not when they're trying to cherish what they've got left. So, yes, I'm overworking myself here at the hospital. Yes, I'm fixating on a middle-aged man's death a bit more than I usually would. But it's either this or I get to sit alone, with nothing. And that _would_ kill me."

She brushed a few traitorous tears away and kept speaking.

"I'm not asking you to help me with this. You asked what I was working on and I explained. Please, please don't feel like I'm trying to guilt you into anything. You are free to go and I will understand. But I think I will keep looking into Mr. Brown's death. If someone killed him, I think his family deserves to know."

She stood from her stool, its legs scraping loudly on the floor and walked to a string of file cabinets, staring blankly a their drawer labels.

"You wouldn't have 'nothing.'"

Sherlock's voice was a welcome balm to the sharp silence. She turned back to look at him.

"You _won't_ have 'nothing.'" he continued. He seemed to struggle to articulate more. "But that's a moot point, I suppose. Because if you're going to keep looking into this, I'll help you."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he hurried on.

"But I do want to clarify that, if you were to throw in your towel and spend the rest of time wallowing in your flat, I thought we had established that there are people who value you and care about you, and wouldn't leave you to fester by yourself. Wherever you happened to be."

Molly waited to see if he had more to say, but Sherlock appeared to have finished.

"Th—Thank you," she said, simply.

He avoided meeting her eyes, clearly uncomfortable after issuing such a vehement (well, vehement for Sherlock) display of sentiment.

Then he apparently decided to try for some recovery.

"Besides, anyone in his right mind would want to save you from dying in just the company of that miserable cat of yours. He's worthless."

Molly gave a watery laugh.

"Says the man who always snuck him treats when they were brief roommates."

"It was a strategic move," he sniffed.

She smiled a bit as she walked closer to him.

"So, you'll go with me to talk to Michael Brown's widow?"

Sherlock gave her a curt nod and began buttoning his coat.

* * *

**Note**: I am really worried this is boring. So I'm asking you all to honestly tell me if it is. This has been a lot slower coming than my earlier stories, and I'm second-guessing/hating everything I write. But hey, I already have the end written. So at least there's that. Now all I need to do is write the stuff in between….

Typical disclaimer about the pathology stuff: My medical knowledge is a bit shoddy—I majored in physical anthropology, so I did some forensic pathology coursework lo' those many years ago, but not much. Apologies for any glaring errors.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read, favorited, and followed this story!

Thanks especially to **Adi, chironsgirl, kawoosh, magicstrikes, CreamoCrop, , Rocking the Redhead, Nocturnias, Kataraang0, MiaBronte, letthesongtakeflight, Nan, coloradoandcolorado1, Benedict-Addict Holmes, A Little Rusty, **and** Guests **for your absolutely kind reviews. They encourage me so much more than I can say.


	3. Chapter 3

_**In the End**_

**Chapter 3**

* * *

_Turning with the listless and staying close behind. The arms that once held you have receded over time.  
And the little love I had for all my friends and foe and the little lines we've drawn between us all have taken hold._

_The Frames, "Friends and Foe", For the Birds_

* * *

The tidy neighborhoods in the suburb of Barking and Dagenham looked almost untouched by the turmoil cutting wide swathes out of London. Front gardens were, for the most part, neat and orderly. The curbs had no rubbish piling up, with chirping birds providing the only disruption to the streets' quiet.

Of course, that could be because the area was half-deserted. Apparently, many of its residents had fled the city. The roads looked surprisingly wide in the absence of parked cars and lorries. There were no people strolling down lanes with their dogs, no dust carts trundling down the road, and no children wheeling around on bicycles in front of the terraced houses that stretched on as if endless.

In an ideal world, the quiet would be peaceful. But this was not. The weather was mild and sunny, yet no windows hung open, their curtains fluttering in the light breeze. All of the houses on these particular streets were shut up, curtains drawn, as if the homes, themselves, were grieving.

And on Eustace Road, the spring daffodils that had just started opening their cheerful faces across the city presented an eerie dichotomy to the absence of all other signs of life.

* * *

Molly and Sherlock spent the hour-long bus trip from Barts to Barking in silence. It was more exhausted than companionable, flavored with at pinch of awkwardness. But she was glad for his presence, nonetheless.

On exiting the hospital together, he'd balked when she stopped at the bus stop. Molly had then proceeded to studiously ignore his increased agitation, as she looked at her TFL app on her mobile, hoping service would still be running somewhat dependably.

They'd been in luck. Within a minute of Molly figuring out their necessary route, the bus they needed had rolled to a stop next to them. As she'd climbed aboard, Molly could hear Sherlock muttering something about taxis versus filthy public transpo. She'd pretended she didn't hear him.

She was actually a little surprised that he hadn't whipped out an antibacterial wipe and run it over his seat before deigning to perch his posterior on it. Apparently he wasn't _that_ fussy. Or he didn't have an antibacterial wipe on him. She'd decided not to tell him she had small packet of Detol wipes in her bag. Either he'd take the whole packet or he'd start lecturing her on supergerms. One could never tell with Sherlock.

They were the only passengers on the bus for the majority of the trip. Like everything else in the city, public transportation was only _just_ running. TFL had managed to scrabble together some kindly (read: lonely) volunteers, much the same as Barts. Judging by the lack of people, anything more than bare-bones service was unnecessary. There probably weren't too many commuters heading to and from work anymore.

When they arrived at the quiet suburb, they had a short walk ahead of them. Sherlock silently followed Molly the few blocks from their stop to 5 Eustace Road. Like the other row houses around it, it had the appearance of something trying to shut out the rest of the world. None of its blinds were open, and there were no cars parked in close proximity to the house.

"Doesn't look like anyone's there. Shall we go find some coffee?" Sherlock asked brightly.

Molly just rolled her eyes and strode forward to the front door, knocking smartly on its wood.

They waited. And waited a bit more.

Just as she was starting to (silently) agree that the house had been abandoned, she heard footfalls from inside, and the tumbler on the lock fall back.

The woman who answered the door looked haggard. Her hair was unbrushed and she wore stained, wrinkled clothing.

She also wore a look of deep consternation, directed deliberately at her unexpected visitors.

"If you're here to tell me that the kingdom of heaven is at hand, I already sent away some of your friends yesterday. I'm not interested in whatever you're selling."

Molly spared a second to marvel at the constancy of a few things, such as door-to-door proselytizers. She shook it off and hurried to dig her Barts identification out of her bag.

"Mrs. Brown, I'm Molly Hooper. I'm a doctor with Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. I was the attending pathologist for Michael Brown's postmortem. And this is Sherlock Holmes, who is assisting me today."

Where Anne Brown had previously looked annoyed, now her face flickered between grief and hope.

"Do you have Michael's ashes? I can't reach anyone at the hospital. I've tried phoning over and over, and no one answers. I want them so badly before…. Well, _before_."

Molly heard Sherlock open his mouth and inhale, probably about to tell Anne that she wouldn't care what she had with her when that particular "_before_" arrived, but Molly elbowed him roughly in the stomach before he could get a word out. He let out an _oomph_ (more out of surprise than pain) and then remained quiet.

"I am so sorry. I don't have your husband's cremains. He was transported to City of London the same morning I completed the postmortem. And I'm sorry I didn't answer your calls. I'm one of two people remaining on staff in the pathology department and am rarely at my desk to hear the phone."

Tears pooled in Anne's eyes, but she nodded silently in understanding. Molly hastily dug in her tote for some tissues, which she thrust out to the silently weeping woman, who took one with a choked thanks.

"Actually, Mrs. Brown, I was wondering if you might have the time to answer a few questions. I am trying to complete my final report, but I'm having some difficulty piecing a few details together. I can't reach his physician's office; I don't think it's open any longer."

The widow nodded and waved them into her dark house.

The front entry opened into a slightly cluttered sitting room. A lumpy sofa dominated the room, the only option for seating, positioned in front of a flat screen television hanging silently on the wall. A knitted afghan throw lay bunched up on the sofa, but there were no books and no remote control around, leading Molly to believe Anne had been sitting, doing nothing, in the oppressive silence.

Molly felt a surge of empathy for the woman. She knew what it was like to have nothing but one's own thoughts and grief for company. When a knock on the door was both the most welcome and most intrusive sound in the world.

Anne waved them through to the small kitchen, located at the back on the ground floor. Molly's nose wrinkled as they entered the room, noticing the slight smell of spoiling food that was starting to overtake the air. No necessarily meat, but vegetables certainly. She did her best to school her expression so she didn't let on that the sickly, sweet scent was apparent.

Sherlock, for his part, appeared rather incurious of everything that was happening. Molly wasn't sure what she'd expected. She supposed she hadn't thought he would whip out his magnifying glass or start flipping through the Browns' post, currently piled on the kitchen counter. But she had thought he might examine his surroundings a _little_.

Instead he stood there, hands in his coat pocket, looking to Molly with an arched brow. She shrugged her shoulders minutely before turning to face Anne once more.

"Mrs. Brown, how long was your husband employed as a pilot?"

Anne didn't look too inclined to do any exact mental math in her dulled state, but she glanced at her wall calendar, as if the Month-at-a-Glance would show her years' worth of dates.

"He earned his license a couple of years before we met in 1980. He worked for various airlines during that time. He was headhunted by EasyJet when it first started up in 1995."

Molly _hmmed_ as she set her bag on the counter, searching its depths for her mobile. As she dug around the striped tote's bottom, she continued her line of questions.

"Had he ever had problems with blood clots before his last flight?"

Anne shook her head, a bit uneasily. Molly only barely caught the change in the woman's demeanor. She looked to Sherlock to see if he'd noticed, but he was busy sighing at Molly's futile search. He walked up to her side, his hand diving into her left coat pocket. It emerged holding her mobile. He unlocked it and pulled up her Notepad app. The look on his face as he thrust the phone under her nose could only be described as 'aggrieved'.

Molly chose to respond with a sophisticated, distant smile of thanks.

She flicked through the series of questions she'd typed up on their bus trip for easy note taking.

"And when was Michael diagnosed with a protein S deficiency?"

Anne's head snapped up from its slumped, wary manner.

"H—he wasn't diagnosed with a protein S defi—whatever you called it."

Finally, Sherlock's attention turned to the other woman; slowly, like a predator scenting something.

"You were about to repeat back exactly what Dr. Hooper said. You changed your mind midsentence and feigned ignorance. Why?"

"I did no such thing. I started to worry that I was saying it wrong, so I stopped," Anne sputtered indignantly.

Sherlock scoffed at the woman's excuse.

"I would almost believe that, but for the fact that you didn't want to discuss your husband's propensity for blood clots before the protein deficiency was even mentioned. Do us all a favor and tell us the truth. We're not here on a police investigation. The good doctor here is trying to help determine what happened to your husband. Something no one else in all of London is trying to do, so it would serve you well to answer her questions honestly."

Anne seemed to slump further, if it was possible, and then she started talking, haltingly but earnestly.

"Michael began feeling poorly a couple of months ago. He started violently coughing. Within a week, it was nearly nonstop. Finally, I called a GP friend of ours. We met with him at his clinic after hours, where he x-rayed Michael's chest and found several clots in his lungs.

"He tried to insist that we go to the hospital… but a pilot developing a clotting disorder would have meant the end of Michael's career. We couldn't afford that. Jwala—the doctor—finally agreed to prescribe him a blood thinner, on the condition that we do tests again in six months. If he didn't improve, Jwala would have to report Michael to the Civil Aviation Authority."

Anne moved over to a cabinet and pulled down a mug. Shuffling over to the cooker, she poured some steaming water from a kettle. She kept her back to them as she fiddled with a bowl full of teabags.

"Now it's two months later, my husband is dead, and I am here alone at the end of the world."

Molly could feel the waves of despair rolling off of Anne Brown's shoulders, but she had to get more answers.

"Mrs. Brown, I am so sorry for your loss. I know you're distressed. But I have to know, why did your husband stop taking his medicine?"

This drew Anne up short. She turned around quickly, confusedly.

"What? He didn't stop taking his medicine. He wouldn't. His career depended on it. The lives of his _passengers_ depended on it. Why would you think such a thing?"

Molly and Sherlock exchanged a glance.

"I did his postmortem, remember? I ran blood tests and catalogued the contents of his stomach. He ate a spinach salad a few hours antemortem. There was no medicine at all in his system. But he had purple toe syndrome, so I knew he had taken warfarin, and fairly recently."

Anne started shaking her head as Molly enumerated her evidence, and didn't stop once the doctor finished speaking.

"I _saw_ him take his medicine. Every day, including the last. You're mistaken."

Molly tried a different tack.

"Do you still have his medicine? I'd like to test it. Perhaps it was defective," she offered.

Anne's hands clenched in helpless fists and tears slid down her face, but she nodded miserably, asked them to remain there, and left the room.

While they waited for her return, Sherlock actually did begin poking around, though Molly thought it was likely more out of boredom than any desire to investigate shady circumstances.

"So… what do you think?" She asked.

He opened the refrigerator door, peering inside with a look of mingled disgust and apathy.

"I think she's conditioned herself to cover for her husband. You heard her admit any revelation of his disorder would have meant the end of his career," he replied as he opened the crisper drawers in the fridge, and closed them just as quickly when the rotting vegetables therein greeted him. He poked at a plastic Tupperware container. Its lid had a faded word scrawled in permanent marker and it held something that vaguely resembled saag paneer, though mold had taken hold and the food was now inedible.

He closed the fridge door and turned back to Molly.

"She's made up a pretty story for herself that she witnessed his every move, when in actuality, he was negligent regarding his own health. She thinks that might somehow reflect badly on her, so she'll likely never admit that he slipped up and she missed it. At least to us."

Molly frowned, not able to find many holes in his logic, but bothered, nonetheless.

She was about to respond when Anne's footfalls approached once more.

Upon reentering the kitchen, she handed off the nondescript chemist's bottle to Molly and then crossed her arms in front of herself like a shield.

"Now, if that's all, I need to be alone. I am sure you'll be in touch. In the meantime, I need to try to get in touch with City of London's crematorium and try to get my husband's ashes back."

Not sure how she could change the widow's mind, Molly nodded and collected her bag.

"One last thing. Have you heard anything from EasyJet since Michael's death?"

Anne herded them through the house, back to the front door.

"No. He only died seven days ago, as much as it feels like it was longer. And now I doubt I'll hear anything from them, what with flights being grounded and airports closed. No reason for any official business now. I have received a few calls from Michael's best friend. Glenn Ericson. He was the first officer on that last flight."

"Could we have his phone number? Maybe he can tell me more about your husband's last few hours," Molly explained.

Anne reluctantly took Molly's proffered mobile and typed in a number on the Notepad.

"He was the one who safely landed the plane after Michael collapsed," she said as she handed the phone back. "Glenn tried to do CPR and save him but—" She broke off on a choked sound.

Molly put a sympathetic hand on the other woman's shoulder.

"Again, I am so sorry. I am going to try to get some answers for you. You're not planning on leaving the city?" Molly asked.

Anne offered them a weak smile and opened the door for them.

"Why would I?" She asked as they stepped out. "This was our home. And whatever you think may have happened, I already have all of the answers I need, except for where my husband is now. But thank you for caring."

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but Anne shut the door, and the lock fell back into place.

* * *

As they slowly walked back to the bus stop, Molly trailed behind Sherlock, preoccupied with her thoughts on Anne Brown's sendoff.

Was Sherlock right? Was Michael Brown's death just a tragic mistake? And as a result, was Molly torturing a grieving widow for no reason other than her own desire to escape an encroaching reality?

But she had been right in her diagnosis of Brown's clotting disorder. He and his wife had made a definite effort to disguise the ailment. That should have meant that Michael would be rather vigilant following his prescribed routine, wouldn't it? What if Sherlock was wrong, and Anne was telling the truth that she'd seen her husband taking his medicine with no disruption? What, then, did that mean?

Yes, there was still the salient argument that it was a waste of time, since everything would be wiped like a slate in ten and a half days' time. But Molly couldn't just reprogram her inquisitive mind, even at so dramatic a hat drop. She'd become a pathologist for her love of puzzles. That, and she couldn't negate her own moral code about right and wrong.

And damn it, if Michael Brown had met a premature end at someone else's hand, didn't the fleeting memory of him deserve the truth?

Molly was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn't see Sherlock draw up short to answer his ringing mobile until she crashed into his back. He spared her an affronted look before he connected the call.

"Hello, Mycroft. How's France? I hear the éclairs are particularly good this season."

As he listened to the response on the other line, Molly was fascinated to watch his expression change. Where it had been playfully snide, he now looked almost _cowed_.

"Ah. Mummy. I apologize—"

Molly could hear a woman's voice filtering out of his mobile earpiece.

"Yes," he replied, "But because you called me on Mycroft's phone, I had no way of knowing that until you actually started talking. Why _are_ you calling me on Mycroft's phone, by the way?"

He stood listening quietly for a moment and then looked to Molly, jerking his head in the direction of the bus stop. They started walking again as Sherlock continued to receive what she decided was a dressing down from his mother.

Molly began making up the other half of the conversation in her head. She decided 'Mummy' was busy telling Sherlock that he needed to be nicer to his big brother.

She hoped there was some threat of grounding involved.

As they arrived at the bus stop, his phone conversation shifted. Molly didn't have to imagine that his mother was asking him to join his family in France. Sherlock's discomfiture was evidence enough. This was a discussion they'd had before.

"Mycroft has assured me transport over there at any time. I will come. I just have things I need to take care of here in the city, first."

Mummy must have had something quite blunt to say to that, because Sherlock wasn't quiet for long, this time.

"I am working on a case, actually… yes, really."

He quieted again, then rolled his eyes.

"An important one, thanks for asking. I couldn't tell you how long it will take to solve, but I will ring you and Mycroft when I have completed it."

His face had scrunched into a mask of exasperation, but at whatever his mother said next, the frustration dropped off, and he suddenly looked much younger than his thirty-six years.

"No, Mummy, I'm not all alone. I'm fine. I will be in touch…. Goodbye."

He hit end on the call and stared expressionlessly at his mobile's face for a moment before tucking it back into his coat pocket. He glanced up, not meeting Molly's eyes, and then his expression darted over her shoulder.

"Here's the bus. Shall we?"

Once Molly had scanned her Oyster card and dug out some coins to cover Sherlock's fare, they made their way back to a row of seats toward the back of the bus. There were more passengers this time around, but not by much.

Sherlock didn't seem inclined to talk, but Molly couldn't just ignore what she'd heard.

"Sherlock, why did you use Michael Brown's death as an excuse not to go to your mother's? Why _are_ you still here? I know you said you're not close, but it sounds like she really wants you with her."

"I guess impending doom has made her sentimental," he tried to evade.

He couldn't quite miss the sardonic look Molly was shooting him, so he gave in with a sigh.

"When I was twelve years old, I figured out that my father was engaged in any number of extramarital affairs. My mode of revealing this to Mu—my mother was less than tactful. It put a rather distinct wedge in our relationship, one which she's tried to expel in recent years."

"And she hasn't been successful," Molly supplied.

"She was never unkind to me, before. But my early twenties were particularly difficult years, and she left a lot of my…handling to Mycroft," he explained with a frown. "I feel it widened the gap between us. I wouldn't say I resent her, but I've had a hard time fostering any sort of closeness since then. Not that I've ever excelled at _close_ with anyone. Trust has never come easily for me."

Molly felt a pang in her chest, for the woman whose life was dramatically changed by a precocious observation from her young son; for that son, older, lonely for his mother when he needed her love and support; and for them both, now, possibly missing their chance to make amends with each other and themselves.

She looked at her seatmate. He was gazing out of the window, his brow only furrowed enough that someone who knew him well would notice.

Opening her mouth, Molly tried to find bolstering or comforting words. But she couldn't think of any.

So, instead, she reached over to him, hesitantly. He didn't notice her hand hovering over his until she finally expelled an impatient huff and air and grabbed it, interlacing their fingers.

She felt his muscles and tendons contract in surprise. He switched his gaze from the window down to their hands, currently resting on the seat upholstery between them. Miraculously, he didn't jerk his away, demanding to know what she was on about.

Instead, he curled his fingers more securely around her hand. She could feel the roughness of callouses on his fingertips, brushing over her skin, sending prickles of awareness shooting up her arm.

All too soon, however, Sherlock pulled his hand free, clearing his throat and returning his eyes to the window.

Rather than dwell on what had just transpired, Molly pulled her bag up from where she'd braced it between her feet. She extracted Michael Brown's medicine bottle, scrutinizing its label. It looked to be in order; a thirty day supply of Warfarin—ten milligrams—prescribed by a Jwala Bakshi, and signed off by a chemist. The bottle was nearly two-thirds empty, judging by it its lightness and rattling.

Gleaning all she could from the exterior (perhaps she could convince Sherlock to look at the nondescript plastic when she was through making her observations), she twisted off the safety cap on the bottle and tipped a tablet out onto her hand.

And immediately drew up short.

"Sherlock," she said quietly.

He turned once again from the window, his eyes inquiring.

"Sherlock," she repeated, "This is _not_ Warfarin."

"How to do you know that without proper lab tests?" he asked politely (or as politely as he was capable of being—so it came out sounding a bit swotty, to be honest).

"I know," she explained, "because Warfarin does not typically have the word 'Aspirin' stamped on its side."

* * *

**Note**: *headdesk* Sorry for the lateness of this. I hope to have the next chapter done in a timelier manner. But by now I've probably proven myself untrustworthy in giving estimates, so just know I'm an earnest scatterbrain. I _do_ have more of an idea of the story's outline and I have more than half of an upcoming chapter written. Woot. Though, it's not the next chapter, so maybe un-Woot?

Thank you so much to everyone who's followed, favorited, and reviewed. I tried to thank reviewers individually, but if I missed someone, I apologize and just know that I am so grateful for the feedback. The same goes for any guest reviewers to whom I couldn't PM my thanks.

Thanks again for your interest in this story, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**_In the End_**

**Chapter 4**

* * *

_The days and nights are killing me. The light and dark are still in me. But there's an anchor on the beach, so let the wind blow hard and wear the falling stars._

_- Trampled by Turtles, "Alone", __Stars and Satellites_

* * *

Michelanglo said, "To touch is to give life."

Touch—a handshake, an embrace, or a kiss—was sometimes called the language of compassion.

Science told us that, not only was physical human contact an important facet in communication, but it also was vital for life itself. We heard stories of babies failing to thrive after months in orphanages where they received no hugs, no kisses—no tenderness at all. Of elderly people dying premature deaths as a result of loneliness.

In fact, the part of the brain that acknowledged the sensation of touch was the same portion of the brain that administered feelings of compassion and reward.

In episodes of trauma, shock could be combatted by sympathetic touch.

When news that the world only had a number of days left, while some humans did resort to violence, many more reached out for one another. They held one another, often and with vehemence.

And while a kind touch from a mother, a father, a friend, or a lover did not mitigate the grief of an oncoming end, to those who were able to receive the comfort of touch, it made a world of difference.

* * *

The bus trundled through the quiet streets of the city, making frequent stops, but rarely admitting or expelling passengers.

Molly held out her hand to Sherlock.

His scoff of dismissal was cut short when he bothered to examine the white pill in her palm. It was ever so faint, but there on the round tablet, running around its perimeter, was the unmistakable word ASPIRIN.

Someone had taken pains to dissolve the lettering. Once Molly handed off that particular pill to him, she dumped a few more from the bottle into her cupped fingers.

Some were better disguised than others, but it appeared that all of the medication remaining in the bottle was aspirin. Not only had someone tried to remove the original word off of the pills, but he or she had also rescored the pill facing with the word COUMADIN.

The hand that did the defacing was steady enough that it would only be noticeable upon close inspection.

"I take it Coumadin is a brand name for Warfarin?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded, distractedly, staring at the medicine. Now that she held proof that Michael Brown had met an unnatural end literally in the palm of her hand, she looked like she was in some sort of shell-shock, unsure how she should proceed.

Sherlock, for his part, was at a loss. This investigation of theirs bore absolutely no resemblance to any he'd conducted before. It rankled that he'd been so sure there was nothing untoward about Michael Brown's death.

"Why don't you try ringing Brown's first officer? It has to have been the wife—it's the only thing that seems possible—but we have no proof. Maybe he can shed some light on Michael's and Anne's relationship."

Molly nodded. She dumped the pills back into the bottle, handing it off to Sherlock, and fished her mobile back out of her coat pocket. As she pulled up the phone number Anne had given them, she thought back on their visit.

"She seemed so genuinely distressed. Are people capable of murder really that good at acting, Sherlock?"

"Molly, I have seen astoundingly stupid criminals and I've seen astoundingly clever ones. Frequently, the clever criminals find ways to channel feelings of guilt into a façade of genuine emotion," he explained as he fiddled with the pill bottle, making it rattle around. "You're right, though, that she didn't make any glaring errors while she spoke to us. No slip-ups showing latent bitterness. But, with our rather unavoidable deadline coming up, Anne has every reason to feel guilty. So much effort, for nothing."

Sighing, Molly hit the connect button and brought her phone to her ear. As it rang through, she spoke to Sherlock over the noise.

"I guess that's true. It's just hard to imagine the _why_ of it. But we might not be able find that answ—Damn, I got his voicemail."

When the recording beep signaled, she quickly introduced herself and asked Ericson to call her as soon as possible. She ended the message on a rather pleading tone, Sherlock thought.

Once she disconnected, she turned her head to find Sherlock looking at her with a quirked eyebrow.

"'It's a matter of life and death'? A bit dramatic, wouldn't you say? Michael Brown's already dead; so will the rest of us be in a short amount of time."

Molly shrugged.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe he'll think we're offering him a place in a highly selective, doomsday bunker."

Sherlock shook his head.

"The fact that you think there's even a possibility of such a thing existing tell me that you watch too much telly."

"The fact that you caught the reference tells me you do, too."

He had no comeback to that.

* * *

They arrived back at Bart's to find its Accident and Emergency department rather still. Looking at the empty chairs of the waiting room, Molly suddenly felt her exhaustion oppressively. It was a weight slowly pushing her into the ground like a stake.

She stood, swaying just slightly as she looked around for anyone who might need assistance. Just as she was coming to the conclusion that A&E had somehow managed to remain a dead zone, she felt Sherlock's hand on her shoulder.

He started steering her to the lifts. After he pushed the call button, he turned to face Molly.

"It's nearly six o'clock. Go home, Molly. You can come back tomorrow. You won't be any good to anyone if you don't get any rest, and the riots will likely start up again soon."

Molly didn't like his tone, if her expression was any indication.

"Just out curiosity, Sherlock, are you going to follow your own advice? Or have you just taken a pseudo-paternal interest in my wellbeing because you're bored?"

Sherlock thought back to Molly's hand in his on the bus; the way her fingertips had felt on his skin. How conscious he'd been of every point where his palm had touched hers. How it had certainly snapped him from his melancholic mood.

No, he wouldn't call what he was feeling _paternal_ by any stretch. And it made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

"I don't require as much sleep," he tried to dissemble. "I can see that you're exhausted. What does it matter what I do?"

One thing he was starting to realize about Molly—and he chided himself for missing it before—was that, while she was normally easygoing and eager to please, she wasn't a complete pushover. She had a rather defined backbone. One she was airing out now.

Her eyes squinted mutinously as the lift dinged its arrival. She stepped on, clearly trying to maintain her composure until the doors had slid shut once more.

She angrily punched the Basement button and then turned on him.

"I don't appreciate being _handled_, Sherlock. I'm an adult and capable of taking care of myself. And it's not like you're one to be doling out this advice, if you can't even follow it yourself."

"You're certainly not acting like an adult, Molly. It's refreshing to know that we can find examples of true irony in this day and age, but I fear it's misguided in this case. Just because you know how to take care of yourself doesn't mean you're even remotely interested in doing so. But I'm not even talking about that. Think of the patients you plan on 'helping,'" he explained.

Later, he would think employing air quotes around "helping" had perhaps been a bit much, but at the time, he barreled on obliviously.

"When you're tired, you start ingesting copious amounts of caffeine, which makes you jittery; So there goes any hope of you giving shots or drawing any blood. I pity any poor bastard who is subjected to your needle sticks.

"Your handwriting gets sloppier, if that's even possible, so you'll probably accidentally prescribe a sulfa drug to a person with an allergy to it. And other, vital aspects your work will suffer, too. Are you prepared to take those risks?"

Her hackles rose at his tone.

"One of us graduated with a First in medicine and a PhD in histopathology. And it's not you. I know how to handle exhaustion. So you can quit explaining my shortcomings to me, because I am well aware of what I can and can't do. And my handwriting is _not_ sloppy."

The lift's doors opened on the basement level, its cheerful chime a stark contrast to the heated debate.

But as they moved out into the hallway, Sherlock could see he was getting nowhere, so he threw in his towel, so to speak.

"This argument is boring me. Do whatever you want. I am going back to my flat. I'm suddenly feeling very tired. I'm going to go sleep, unlike some people I could mention. Text me when you hear from Glenn Ericson."

On that pronouncement, he stepped back into the lift, wishing that the doors would have the decency to shut dramatically as he finished speaking. Instead, they stayed stubbornly open, leaving Sherlock and Molly to have a glaring match.

Then Molly seemed to deflate. To Sherlock's surprise, she followed him back into the confining space of the elevator.

"I had actually decided to go home before you said anything. But I don't respond well to being told what to do. I know you haven't seen evidence of that until now, what with the way I used to act around you. I don't try to hide it around people I'm not wanting to impress."

Sherlock tried not to puff up at her admission that his opinion of her mattered so much. Not that it was a revelation, but it was first time she'd said it aloud. Also, he was feeling an alien happiness that she was comfortable enough with him now that she didn't feel the need for artifice.

They stood there for a few seconds in silence, until Sherlock decided to break it.

"Your handwriting really is atrocious."

"It's a sensitive subject," Molly sighed. "I had to miss morning music in primary school for remedial penmanship lessons."

"Then your teacher ought to have been fired."

"She was, eventually. They found out she was smuggling vodka in a water bottle."

He turned an assessing look on her.

"So your handwriting really is that of a drunk's? I never could deduce what was wrong with it. That explains a lot."

* * *

Sherlock didn't hear from Molly again until forty hours later. He spent the following day with John and Mary. While he was happy to see his best friend, and had always liked John's wife, he regretted his decision to call on them.

They were a couple in mourning. Sherlock found himself averting his eyes from their loss; so apparent with the way they would find excuses brush their hands across the others shoulders, or often just stand still, embracing each other.

It was a palpable bereavement, and Sherlock felt he was intruding on something not meant for him.

He mentioned his discomfort to John that evening when Mary had stepped into another room to call her parents. John simply waved aside Sherlock's almost-apologetic tone and simply replied, "I'm not sorry to have anyone see how much I'll always love her."

And Sherlock felt an ache in his own chest.

He returned to Baker Street two hours later, feeling a bit raw and unsettled. He spent a sleepless night plucking at his violin strings, thinking over the strange case of Michael Brown's death; thinking about Brown's widow; thinking about John and Mary's loss.

Thinking about Molly.

He wasn't sure why his thoughts kept circling back to her. She was a good friend, to be sure; one whose importance he hadn't appreciated for a good portion of the time they'd known each other. But that didn't explain why she was bothering him so much now when she wasn't even physically present.

He concluded it had to just be the case they found themselves working on together.

Sherlock continued to brood—no, _ponder _as he played through a Ralph Vaughan Williams piece.

Several times.

He just couldn't get the fingering right.

He certainly wasn't distracted.

Sherlock allowed himself to consider that, if he _was _distracted by thoughts of Molly, it was only because he was concerned for her. That was a mark of true friendship, wasn't it? He didn't have to exert effort worrying for John, because John had Mary. So it stood to reason that he wasn't thinking of the army doctor nearly so much.

Molly, on the other hand, didn't have a Mary of her own. She had her friends, but she didn't have anyone whose shoulders she could brush her fingers across. She didn't have someone she could embrace without an awkward non sequitur.

Yes, he finally decided, he was comfortable with this thought process. He was simply feeling a rather human regret for what Molly had never found for herself, because he certainly didn't wish her to be unhappy.

Satisfied, Sherlock started playing the Vaughan Williams again. Just one more go of it, he told himself.

* * *

When Molly did contact him a few hours later, Sherlock had finally stopped playing his violin. After his fingertips threatened to form new blisters under his musician's calluses, he'd wandered over to his microscope.

He was sitting, examining some slides from an old experiment, when his mobile cheerfully chirped an incoming message. Though he'd been listening for it with half an ear, it still was startling to hear such a loud, mechanical noise in the otherwise silent flat.

Sherlock flipped his mobile around and read the incoming text.

_Finally reached Glenn Ericson. Meeting him noon in the Festival Gardens. – M_

Sherlock glanced at his clock, surprised to see it was already 11:00. He would need to leave Baker Street soon if he wanted to make it to the gardens in time.

He shot off a quick reply telling Molly he would be there and then he hurried to shower and dress.

* * *

The Festival Gardens sat in the shadow of Saint Paul's Cathedral. The sunken lawn and the wall fountain at one end of the gardens' rectangular allotment were just starting to show signs of, if not neglect, then distraction. The lawn needed mowing, some daffodils deadheading, and the water feature could have used a cleaning.

City beautification not being a priority, the gardens would never again be a tidy place for tourists to sit while they waited for Evensong in the cathedral.

Sherlock spotted Molly as she came around the corner of the churchyard. She wore her normal work clothes, and he realized she must have walked there from the hospital.

He waved her over to the bench he'd commandeered, studying her as she approached.

She only looked a little better rested than the last time he'd seen her, but as least she wasn't swaying with exhaustion.

She greeted him quietly, then began to fill him in on the erstwhile first officer' difficulties.

"It sounds to me like he's spent the last several days making himself at home at a pub near here. His partner was a corporate accountant in some Fleet Street firm, so they could afford to live in this area."

Taking a seat next to Sherlock, Molly continued to speak.

"Apparently, as soon as the news broke last week, his partner ran away with one of his clients. They'd been together for five years, so it was rather severe blow for Ericson. I don't know how much help he'll be. He was still pretty soused when he called me back this morning."

Sherlock nodded, then pointed to an approaching figure.

"Is that he?"

She shrugged, but didn't bother to disguise her stare.

The man making his way toward them was a burly redhead. He seemed to be steady enough on his feet, but his gait didn't exactly follow a straight line. He looked at his surroundings, blinking slowly as he glanced up at the sky. Clouds had come in early that morning, but the rain they promised was still at bay. The man still squinted, as if even the muted light was too much.

Finally, he reached them.

"You Molly Hooper?" He asked, not unkindly.

Molly shot to her feet and offered him a hand to shake.

"Sorry, yes. How are you, Mr. Ericson?"

Glenn Ericson shrugged his shoulders noncommittally before turning an assessing eye to Molly's companion, who was slowly getting to his feet.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man in question said by way of introduction.

"Thought you looked familiar. I used to follow your website. Your '243 ways to leave your lover' and all that," Ericson said, chuckling mirthlessly.

"It was actually 243 types of tobacco ash," Sherlock corrected.

"Mr. Ericson was joking," Molly murmured to him.

"Ah."

The three of them looked at each other, waiting for someone to speak again.

Molly was the first to shake off the awkward silence.

"As I explained on the phone, we were actually wanting to talk to you about Michael Brown."

A flicker of grief passed over Ericson's face before it was replaced by a dulled expression of mild enquiry.

"So you said. What about him?"

Molly tucked her hands into her pockets, something Sherlock noticed she did when she felt like she was being a bother.

"Mostly, we were hoping you could walk us through his last few hours. I need some answers before I can complete his postmortem report."

Ericson face once again gave a brief glimpse of distress.

"You'll forgive me for asking, but _why_ is it important now? He's dead, and everyone else will die in a week. Shouldn't you be with your family instead of working on something that's so trivial now?"

Molly scuffed the toe of her shoe on one of the bench's clawed feet. Sherlock was surprised to note that she didn't look too distressed by Ericson's blunt words. She merely appeared to be gathering her thoughts.

Convincing people to care with her was proving to be an uphill battle for Molly Hooper.

"I know it seems like I'm beating a dead horse,"—Sherlock thought to himself that he might have gone for different metaphor—"but I don't think Michael died a natural death"

At this, Ericson let out a loud guffaw. But he immediately sobered when Molly and Sherlock didn't crack a smile.

"You—you're serious."

When Molly only nodded, Ericson sat down heavily on the bench.

"Miss—"

"Doctor," Sherlock corrected.

"Doctor Hooper, I was with Michael until the very end. There is no way his death could have been anything but natural."

Molly sat back down beside Ericson, looking at him imploringly.

"Then tell me what you remember from the day. Help me understand what happened."

Ericson scratched his brow as if he were trying to physically pull up with his fingertips memories he'd suppressed with drink and other heartbreak.

"We only had one run that day—Luton to Belfast and back. Michael was punctual as always. He frequently assisted cabin crew in cleaning the plane and preparing it for new passengers before doing his own pre-flight check."

"What time was the outbound flight?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, eleven o'clock, I believe. Arriving in Belfast at noon, departing from there about an hour later."

"And how was Michael's health during the first leg of the trip?" Molly inquired.

Ericson shrugged.

"Fine. He was hale as ever. He didn't complain about anything. Before we left for Belfast, he had me go get us some salads from an airport canteen. Said he was starving, which wasn't unusual for Michael. He was a big man. He ate the entire thing, quick as you like."

"When did he start feeling poorly, then?" She pressed on.

"Not long after takeoff from Belfast. He started sweating a bit, but not so much that he asked for any help or anything. It wasn't until we were talking with air traffic control, coordinating our initial descent, that he started getting clammy and dizzy, too."

Ericson had started shaking his head while he spoke, like he was trying to dispel those memories now.

"And then Michael just fainted, right over his controls just as we were about to begin landing procedure. I had to quickly take over the landing. We lost altitude quite quickly, but I leveled us back out and managed to get the plane on the ground without incident."

Molly nodded sympathetically.

"Thank goodness you acted quickly. Anne Brown told us that you administered CPR while you waited for an ambulance?"

Ericson nodded, still looking far away.

"I tried. All flight crew have to be trained in it anymore. Fat lot of good it did for Michael, though. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, but he was gone long before that."

"And you're sure there was nothing strange about the way he'd been acting in the days leading up to his death?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Ericson insisted. "Michael was a favorite in the company because of his work ethic and his sense of humor. He and Anne had their arguments, I won't deny it. But they were working through them together. Michael was going to retire this year, and I think he was looking forward to it."

Molly glanced at Sherlock and then seemed to come to a decision.

"Did Michael ever tell you about his blood clotting disorder?"

Ericson looked a bit incredulous.

"He didn't have a blood clotting disorder. He wouldn't have been allowed to fly if he did."

"Not if he kept it a secret," Molly said quietly.

"I knew Michael Brown, and he was a careful man. He wouldn't have put other people at risk like that."

"He was being treated for it in private. That's what raised my suspicions—I found the markers for the disorder, but I didn't find ay medication in his system."

She took a bracing breath, and then brought up the most damning evidence.

"Sherlock and I went to see Anne day-before-yesterday. When she gave us his medicine, it turned out that all of the pills had been replaced with aspirin, altered to match the prescription drug's appearance."

Ericson had started shaking his head vehemently as Molly spoke, and he didn't stop when she finished.

"It had to have been a chemist's error. Why would anyone want to hurt Michael? He was a good, good man, and I don't think he had a single enemy."

"You said he and Anne were having some problems?"

"Yeah, but normal stuff. A few issues with money, and some disagreements about what he would do once he retired, but nothing for her to kill him over!"

"And you can't think of anyone else who might want to do the Brown family harm?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Absolutely not," Ericson nearly shouted, jumping back to his feet. "This is ridiculous. You're wasting your time, and you're wasting mine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to go."

Molly opened her mouth to object, but he was already hurrying away, still shaking his head.

Sherlock resumed his seat, looking questioningly at Molly.

"I just… I can't understand why this has to be so hard. Sherlock, we _know_ that something happened to Michael Brown. But no one even cares. I know the world is in shock right now, but how can these people stand not knowing the truth?"

"I think people put themselves into comfort zones in even the mildest of traumas. They create pretty fictions for themselves to help them cope with loss. And since we're all about to experience a loss that's literally too great to fathom, I imagine their brains' defense mechanisms are working in overdrive.

"It's not that these people don't care, Molly. It's that their bodies are telling them that they _can't_ care."

Molly slumped slightly at his words.

"Well then what does it say about me that I still care? I'm not in denial. I know what's coming."

Sherlock studied her.

"It says that you have a greater mental capacity for both than many of the idiots in this world. I believe that's defined as empathy. And that, Molly Hooper, you have in excess."

She offered him a weak smile of thanks before she took a deep breath and stood once more.

"I should get back to the hospital. I told Jack that I would help out in A&E again this afternoon."

Sherlock started walking with her.

"We could take a taxi, you know."

Molly looked around them pointedly. Though some taxis were still in operation, Sherlock would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that it was getting harder and harder to find one readily.

"It's a very nice day for a walk, anyway," Molly offered.

Just as the sky opened up and began pouring rain on them.

* * *

Nine hours later, Molly stumbled through the lab doors, intent on getting her coat and bag and heading home for some much-needed sleep. She drew up short when she found Sherlock seated at his favorite microscope, peering into the eyepiece.

"Sher—I thought you'd left ages ago."

He _hmm_ed distractedly.

"I had some experiments from a few weeks ago whose results I never bothered to tabulate. I figured there was no time like the present. And since I knew you wouldn't leave here until after dark, I thought I would stay and walk you home."

"That's very nice of you. I'm ready to go now, if you are."

Sherlock was already reaching for his coat before she finished her sentence.

Rain was still falling steadily as they stepped out into the chilly night air. Molly's flat was about a twenty minute walk from the hospital. She'd done it so often that it was almost unconscious now.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was not any more thrilled to be in the elements this than when they'd been on their far briefer jaunt to Bart's that afternoon.

As they wove through various side streets, he kept up a steady diatribe, chastising Molly for her decision not to own a car in "this day and age."

Molly was staying suspiciously quiet, leading Sherlock to believe that she wasn't even listening to him. He was about to draw her attention to her rude behavior, when movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him.

Sherlock had time to bark Molly's name and grab her shoulder, yanking her backward.

In time for a brick to go sailing past, right where her head had once been. It crashed into the shop window they were standing in front of, and Molly gaped as the sound of rainfall was suddenly drowned out by yells and shouts of a large group of people heading toward them.

"Molly?" Sherlock said calmly.

"Yes?"

"I think now would be a good time for us to run."

She was about to voice her agreement when he snatched up her hand and started yanking her down the street.

As they sprinted down the street, the angry yells of the rioters followed the, along with shrieking alarms and more shattering glass.

Perhaps most frightening about their pursuers was the fact that they weren't even necessarily targeting Sherlock and Molly. The people in the mob were just so consumed by rage and grief that they didn't even care who they hurt in their fury.

Finally, _finally _they made it to Molly's building. She fumbled with her house keys as she looked desperately over her shoulder at the advancing throng.

Molly at last was able to fit her key into the lock. She and Sherlock dove into the building's foyer, slamming the door shut behind them. They didn't take time to rest as they ran for the stairs leading to the upper floors.

Once the two were ensconced in Molly's flat, Sherlock stationed himself at the window, looking out on the melee below. It wasn't until he saw the flickering of flames three buildings down the row that he grew alarmed.

Sherlock yanked out his mobile, quickly dialing a number.

"Mycroft," he said shortly. "Molly and I are trapped in her flat. There's a riot going on and they're starting to play with matches. Can you send a car for us?"

As he listened to his brother's response, Sherlock turned to look at Molly.

"Is there alley access from this building?"

She continued to look out of her sitting room window, wincing as glass shattered and shouts sounded. She nodded mutely at Sherlock's question, but otherwise made no reply.

Sherlock remained on the phone only a brief while longer before disconnecting the call.

"A car will be here for us in five minutes. Is there anything you need to gather before we leave?"

Molly distractedly replied, "I'll get my mobile charger and change of clothes."

He blinked at her.

"That's all you'll need for eight days?"

This got Molly's attention.

"What? Eight days? I'm coming back here tomorrow."

Sherlock could only stare.

"No, you're not."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock? Of course I am. This crowd's been rioting every night for over a week now. They're just more wound up than normal."

"Molly… this isn't going to get better. It will only get worse. It isn't safe here anymore. I can tell all of your neighbors have already left."

She scoffed.

"I'm perfectly safe here."

On that pronouncement, a large rock came through the window, landing between Sherlock's and Molly's feet.

They stared, a bit shell-shocked, at the improbably timed projectile.

"We don't have time for this," Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Start packing. Do you have a carrier for the cat?"

Molly roused herself slightly when Sherlock began pushing her toward her bedroom.

What followed was a hurried dash around the flat's small floor, all to the soundtrack of madness from below.

Sherlock hauled Molly's yowling feline and several bags of food down the stairs to the alley entrance off of the ground floor. Molly followed behind with a suitcase and a tote filled with several sentimental tchotchkes. Sherlock noted that she kept glancing back up the stairs as they descended. What she was looking for, he couldn't say.

A sleek black car sat waiting for them in the wet alley, and once they and Molly's few possessions were loaded in, it carried them away from the confusion and turmoil.

* * *

She looked very small, standing in the middle of John's old bedroom. Sherlock had led her up there, not sure what he should do next. He set the pet carrier down and freed the angry feline from his confines. The cat immediately ran to Molly, tucking himself in at her feet.

"The loo is just off of my bedroom. If you want more space, you could go down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. It's just sitting empty now," Sherlock explained.

Molly merely shook her head. She hadn't spoken a word since they left her flat behind.

Sherlock looked around the cold room. Its bed sat made in the corner, unslept-in since John's marriage.

Molly, he noticed wasn't bothering to take in her surroundings. She looked… expressionless. Impossible to read.

"What's the matter? Will you need more blankets? I can try to find some—"

She interrupted him with a shake of her head and finally spoke.

"I've just left my home. I'll never go home again."

He nodded, unsure of what he should say in response to that.

"It's just…. I never thought about it. I was doing so well compartmentalizing. But now that I've lost my home I…"

She lifted here shoulders in a helpless shrug.

"Sherlock. I've left my home, and we're all going to die."

Sherlock felt impotent. He could only think of one response, and even he knew it was completely inadequate. But still, he said it.

"I know."

* * *

It was, he realized, the first time he'd actually felt like sleeping in four days. He managed to discard his clothes and yank on some pajama pants before he hauled himself into his bed. Flinging his arm out, he turned off his reading lamp, almost shoving it from the bedside table in his exhaustion.

He dropped off into a dreamless sleep immediately after that.

Sherlock couldn't have told anyone how long he was out before a creaking floorboard lurched loudly enough to wake him.

Cracking an eye open, he had to wait for his vision to adjust to a shaft of light streaming in from the hallway outside of his bedroom. Before everything came into focus, all he could see was a shadowy blob with a halogen corona. Finally, though, he was able to discern distinct shapes and the actual face of his visitor.

There in his doorway stood Molly.

"What is it?" He asked her, blearily.

Though she was backlit, Sherlock could see her obvious distress. She looked mortified that she was there. She shifted from foot to foot, like she couldn't decide whether to leave or come further into the room.

Then, without saying a word, she seemed to come to a decision. She stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Sherlock, still too groggy to do much else (though rapidly waking up), watched as she skirted around to the other side of his bed, pulled up the duvet, and climbed in, the mattress dipping a little with her weight.

He started to turn onto his back so see what she was doing, but Molly's body pressing up against his stopped him from rolling over. Her knees pushed into the backs of his thighs, her hands flattened against his ribs, and her hitching breath puffed against his upper back.

Sherlock lay there, frozen, unsure of what he should do. He felt like he couldn't even breathe. Like he _shouldn't_ breathe. What he told himself he _should_ do was demand to know what she was doing.

But, still, he stayed quiet. He didn't move, all his muscled tensed with confusion, concern, and fear.

Molly only pressed herself further against him, as if she were trying to burrow into his skin. And then, when she pressed her forehead against the space between his shoulder blades, he felt something warm and wet fall from her face onto his back. He mentally traced its path as it slid down to the mattress beneath them.

Her tears fell, so quietly. If he hadn't felt them dripping onto his skin, he wouldn't have known she was crying, though her breath did hitch periodically.

Sherlock thought back on a hazy memory his mother comforting him when he was a small boy, rubbing his back to soothe hiccupping sobs. He felt ungainly, wishing he could coordinate his limbs and his mind to _do something_.

He wasn't sure he knew how to be gentle; he'd never been any good offering comfort. But still, he wished he could try.

But if he _tried_ to offer her comfort, if he rolled over and had to look at her … well, he wasn't sure which of them would be made more vulnerable by that.

So he stayed where he was, lying on his side, looking at the bright light seeping under the bottom crack of his bedroom door.

Molly's body shuddered as she fought to keep silent. She didn't make a single request of Sherlock, other than the unspoken one for his nearness.

Somehow, that eased him a little. Not enough that he could reasonably roll over, but he did regain some voluntary movement in his muscles.

He reached behind him, his hand encountering the soft cotton of her t-shirt. He ghosted his fingers across the dip of her waist to the bottom of her ribcage, until he finally found her arm. Curling his fingers around her elbow, he brought both of their arms back across his body.

Once he had her arm hooked over his waist, he tentatively covered her hand with his, weaving his fingers in between hers so that he could press her palm to his (thundering) heart.

Molly's fingers curled just the slightest bit, her short, round nails digging into his skin, though not uncomfortably. She didn't try to move her hand or shift herself at all.

Later, he wouldn't be able to recall how long that night was, lying there with Molly. It was both the longest and shortest in his memory. Eventually, miraculously, her breathing began to even out. She kept her forehead pressed to his back, so he could both hear and feel as sleep finally claimed her.

Sherlock was left wide-awake, Molly's hand still in his. He stared at the raindrops on the glass of his window. Backlit by an alley light, they cast wavering shadows on his bedroom ceiling before sliding away in indistinguishable streams.

* * *

.

* * *

**Note/Insta-Poll:** The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Say a writer is in the middle of a T-rated, multi-chapter fic and she has been kicking around the idea of throwing in a bit of smut in a future chapter. Would you prefer she up the rating to M in her existing story, or should she do a companion piece in a separate post? Or should she do nothing at all and never mention the word "smut" again? Asking for a friend.

Special thanks and groveling to Adi, Megan, and Nocturnias. They were so nice and gave me some much-needed advice when I started frantically PMing them on Sunday morning over that last scene. Not to give too much away about what _could_ have happened, just know it involved Molly walking into Sherlock's room, only to find him dancing around with a feather boa, singing "New York, New York."

Just kidding.

Thank you so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this so far. I know it's not exactly a rollicking laugh-fest, but I really appreciate the interest and encouragement!

There were some guests to whom I couldn't extend my thanks via PM. So: thanks, guests! I am so grateful for the feedback.


	5. Chapter 5

**_In the End_**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

_So go and riddle me over. I'm a man got nothing to show for my work in the ground in this here London Town. I've got my back to the fire, but it ain't the bridges that are falling down._

_-State Radio, "Riddle in London Town", __Us Against the Crown_

* * *

"The Home Office has asked us to stress that we must strive for peace, order, and safety," intoned the news anchor to her audience the night they announced that the world was ending. She paused to clear her throat, her gaze wandering off to the side for just a flickering moment before she turned steady eyes back to the camera.

"While we are facing the darkest times imaginable, and while it would too easy to sink into despair, we have the opportunity to make so much of humanity's final days. So we here at BBC One will sign off only for the day. Like you, we are going to go home and hold our loved ones close. But we will be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on, for as long as we possibly can. Because we have an occasion to which we must rise—all of us—and we want to share that task with you. So, just for now, good night, stay safe, and take care of each other."

.-.

It wasn't an easy matter for newsagents. They were burdened with the role of foremen on the Earth's jury, reading its sentence aloud to a disbelieving, horrorstruck courtroom gallery.

Yes, it was hard.

But that was nothing to the parents, parents suddenly finding themselves having to break such horrendous news to their children. Often, it was to young children who were not even old enough to have had any prior introduction to death.

In many cases, parents and caretakers elected to say nothing. They decided that reality was too terrible, too traumatic. They decided there would be plenty of time for terror and trauma and they clung to their babies' innocence as desperately as they could. And who would blame them?

But there were also plenty who chose to be honest. And there were those who made the decision not to tell the truth, but had their hands forced by the sheer reality that a lot of children were perceptive.

Even if those children missed the actual news, they saw plenty of other signs. They saw their mothers and fathers crying when they were unaware of little eyes watching them. They heard murmured discussions where adults would ask the unanswerable, "What do we do?" and "Why?"

The amazing thing about children, though, was that they were stronger than adults often thought. Yes, they were scared. But they also had a grace that adults often lost through sheer force of living. Exposure to too much suffering, loss, and heartbreak might well have forced grown-ups around that final turn from childhood to adulthood. Without that inured reality, many children were able to face the oncoming end with far more poise than adults.

* * *

The rain did not slow in the morning hours. It fell with steady purpose, casting a grey pall on the city and its people. Sherlock, whose moods had always been mercurial without any influence from the weather, seemed to be matching his disposition to the dreary damp.

Molly was uncomfortable with his melancholy, particularly because she was sure she could identify _why_ his mood was so dour. He was clearly feeling the effects of the previous night's events. Why _wouldn't_ he be out of sorts?

She needed to face the truth practically. Last night she had climbed into Sherlock's bed, seeking comfort from him. Yes, he had even _given _her that sought-after comfort, if awkwardly. But that didn't mean she hadn't indelibly changed their relationship; perhaps even damaged it.

While her heart had chosen Sherlock five years ago—two years after its interest was first piqued by his strange, brilliant mind—he had never once reciprocated her feelings. She'd accepted that hard truth and worked to spare as much remained of her dignity as she could.

She certainly was doing a bang-up job of it.

What was almost worse was that Sherlock had not said a word about her embarrassing show of weakness.

When she'd woken, they were in the same position as when she'd wrapped herself around him the under the safe cover of darkness all those hours before. He'd let go of her hand sometime in the night, but had kept her arm over his body by hooking his elbow around hers.

As she'd slowly blinked awake that morning, he'd held still as she got her bearings, though he had to have felt her stirring behind him. He'd said nothing of rebuke, made no demands that she get herself to a nunnery, and—perhaps most surprising of all—his body was rather pliant against hers.

Though, she miserably ruminated several hours later,perhaps that was only because he'd had plenty of time in the night to resign himself to his new, Molly-pinned reality.

With an embarrassed cough, she'd extracted herself from around him and all but flung herself from the bed. As she'd darted to the bedroom door, she had refused even to look at him. She'd mumbled a mortified, "Thank you," before darting back up to the relative safety of John's old bedroom.

When she'd finally told herself that she couldn't stall leaving for the hospital any longer, she'd edged her way back down to the flat's main floor, not sure what to expect. She'd found Sherlock seated in his usual chair, wearing one of his crisp suits, fingers steepled under his chin in thought. She had seen him fall into oblivious catatonia many times, so she'd shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of whether she should disturb him to tell him she was leaving.

To her surprise, he'd blinked back to alertness before she could say anything.

"Are you ready to go?" He'd asked, shaking his wrist to move his shirt cuff away from his watch.

"You're coming, too?" Molly had replied.

He'd merely nodded and stood, making his way to the coatrack. Pulling his Belstaff on and grabbing an umbrella, Sherlock walked through the door and down the stairs without looking to see if Molly was following.

The _status_ was well and truly _quo_, Molly had thought to herself as she hastily pulled on her own coat and scuttled down the stairs.

They'd stood on the sidewalk, watching the sparse traffic pass them by. As far as Molly could tell, there were no taxis in service on the whole stretch of Baker Street. Not that this was surprising, as they'd dwindled further and further with each passing day.

She couldn't say she blamed people for throwing in their towels now. With just over a week left, everything felt more and more urgent. Her own episode the night before was evidence enough of that.

Acknowledging one's mortality was exhausting work in and of itself.

But Molly couldn't shake her duty. What it came down to was that she'd chosen her career so she could help people. Perhaps not quite so directly, but she still held firm to the Hippocratic oath, and she couldn't help but feel that she would be violating that by abandoning her post.

So there she was, trudging through London's deadening streets on a cold, rainy morning. She huddled under Sherlock's umbrella while at the same time trying to make herself as small as possible, lest she invade his personal space any more than she already had in the past ten hours.

Molly had actually tried to convince him that she liked the cold rain splashing on her face and dripping down into her clothes. He hadn't bought it for a second and had merely rolled his eyes as he adjusted his stride to match hers, giving her reprieve from the chilly rain.

He didn't respond to her muttered thanks.

When they arrived at the hospital, they found A&E was almost as dead as when they'd left it the night before. She didn't like to think of the reasons why this might be. She could come up with a handful without much thought: Barts' A&E was newer, so perhaps people didn't think of it when they found themselves in emergent situations. Maybe traffic would pick up again a bit later in the day. Or it might be that people just didn't need medical attention.

But deep down, she knew none of those suggestions her brain threw out were viable. None of them could compete with the real reason.

People were just giving up.

She'd seen it in the diminishing traffic on the streets. She'd seen it in her neighborhood and at the Millennium Gardens. She'd seen it in the number of people leaving town or just shutting themselves into their flats and houses, closing in around themselves.

With just over a week left, she imagined a lot of people just thought there was no use in seeking medical attention; but she still couldn't fathom why some of them would choose to live in pain.

If they _were_ choosing to live, that was.

Regardless of the reasons, Molly took the unexpected time over the next hour to move supplies from closets to carts, restocking shelves in exam rooms, and making sure the biohazard bins were emptied.

In that time, Sherlock had wandered off, likely to the lab. Molly couldn't say whether she felt any reprieve in his absence. She certainly didn't spare him any less thought. Instead, as she rolled a trolley filled with bandages between treatment areas, she replayed the last night's events over and over in her mind. She came no closer to figuring out how she could address it.

Or if she should. Maybe she should continue to follow his lead and affect the cool façade she'd always wished she had.

Decision made, Molly nodded to herself and began wheeling the now-empty trolley back to the supply cupboard.

She was interrupted in her journey by a woman's screams carrying across the A&E.

* * *

Sherlock had not frittered away his time since arriving back at Barts. Not that anything Sherlock Holmes did could be considered frippery, but all the same. As soon as Molly had left to find some busywork to distract herself until her more specialized skills were needed, he had made his way down to her small basement office, intent on doing a little research.

Without too much hassle he found his way into the hospital's server, and not too long after that, he had a contact list pulled of various General Practitioners in the greater London area.

Finding Jwala Bakshi's telephone number was a simple enough matter. The hospital only had his practice's contact information, but Sherlock soon had the doctor's home line entered on his mobile (when he recounted this accomplishment to Molly, he was going to omit his middle step of a quick text message fired off to Mycroft to attain said doctor's unlisted number).

Sherlock only hesitated briefly before he hit Send, bringing the phone to his ear as he wondered what exactly he would ask the good doctor.

The tinny double ring sounded a few times before a woman's voice filled the phone's speaker.

"Yes, may I speak to Dr. Bakshi?" Sherlock requested, remembering at the last moment to tack on a "Please."

The woman paused a moment, likely trying to place Sherlock's voice, before she asked, "May I ask who is calling?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes, calling with Saint Bartholomew's pathology department." He figured no one need ever know he was impersonating a hospital employee. "I was hoping to discuss one of his former patients whose postmortem I am trying to complete."

This time, the silence was a little more uncomfortable before he heard a sigh from the woman.

"One moment, please," she said.

Sherlock could make out murmured voices and some shuffling sounds and then a man took up the phone.

"This is Jwala Bakshi. How may I help you?" He didn't sound unkind, but there was an edge of impatience in his voice that even Sherlock could detect.

"Dr. Bakshi, I'm calling to ask you about Michael Brown. I understand he was a friend of yours?"

"Yes. What of him?"

Sherlock blinked at the abrupt tone, but continued on, imagining how Molly would handle such a call.

"Captain Brown's widow tells me that he recently developed a blood clotting disorder. You diagnosed and treated it, is that correct?"

Bakshi made a brief noise that Sherlock took as an affirmative.

"The reason I have questions is because Michael Brown did not have any anticoagulants in his blood at the time of his death. He died of a pulmonary embolism from a thrombotic clot."

"I am honestly at a loss as to why that would be, sir. Perhaps a chemist's error?" Bakshi asked. "Michael was diligent. He knew I would have no choice but to report him if his blood showed any abnormalities in his next checkup."

"Oh, no, Doctor. This was no mere error. His medicine had been tampered with. Replaced with aspirin that someone had gone to great pains to disguise as his usual Warfarin pills."

The doctor didn't reply immediately, and though Sherlock had never seen his face, he pictured Bakshi bearing a look of consternation.

"Nonsense."

"I assure you, it isn't. It looks to me like someone wanted Captain Brown to fall ill, if not die," Sherlock supplied. "And the only person who could have easily ensured this was Anne Brown. You were close friends with them. What was their relationship like?"

Bakshi snorted, "Anne? This conversation is getting more and more ridiculous. Anne would never do anything of the sort. She loved Michael and was nothing but supportive of him."

"Then how did the pills get switched?" Sherlock pressed. "It was rigged to look like the correct medicine. It was most definitely not an accident."

Bakshi gave a tired, sad sigh.

"Has it occurred to you, Dr. Holmes,"—Sherlock didn't correct him on the title—"That perhaps Michael killed himself?"

Sherlock blinked, actually pulling his mobile away from his ear to look at the screen, as if he might see Jwala Bakshi in front of him.

Normally, suicide was the first thing pathologists worked to rule out in such investigations, but Molly had had no reason to suspect foul play until several days after Brown's death.

"What makes you suggest that?" He questioned the doctor.

"Anne told you that Michael was about to retire, yes? And are you familiar with the Civil Aviation Authority rules on pilot tenure?"

Sherlock shook his head before he remember to speak aloud.

"No. What rules?"

"Michael wasn't _choosing_ to retire. It is compulsory for airline pilots to retire at the age of sixty-five, which Michael would have turned next month."

"And you think he was unhappy about this?" Sherlock asked.

"He wasn't overjoyed. While they weren't poor, Michael and Anne certainly weren't wealthy, either. Taking a pension is a significant pay cut. There was some talk of their moving to a smaller flat or at least further out of the city."

"That was all the impetus he needed to kill himself? No, suicide is not that cut and dried," Sherlock scoffed.

"I'm not saying it was. But I am telling you that Michael did suffer from mild depression He seemed to be doing well of late; but, as you know, Dr. Holmes, that isn't something you're ever cured of. Combine that with a potentially fatal blood disorder, and it might have seemed too much for Michael. Not to mentioned the widow's benefits Anne would have received if he managed to make it look like an accident."

Not convinced, Sherlock asked, "Why would he risk all of the passengers on his plane when he was doing it? Surely there are safer ways to accomplish the same thing. And why would he create such a pretense with his medicine if he was just going to off himself?"

Bakshi gave a pained noise at Sherlock's blunt speaking, but didn't comment on it.

"Have you ever suffered from depression? By the time someone reaches the point where he's willing to kill himself, there is usually very little logic involved. And if Michael only could look forward to retirement and destitution or getting caught by the CAA for his clotting disorder, then it's possible he decided it was all too much."

"But the medicine w—" Sherlock began.

"That is actually an easily explanation," Bakshi interrupted. "Anne always restocked their weekly pill sorters. Michael was nothing if not thorough, and Anne had no reason to look too closely, but she still might have noticed if he took nothing at all or if his medication suddenly looked different."

The more Sherlock thought on it, the sillier he felt for not having considered it until that point. True, killing one's self in a way that endangered others was a rather brash move for someone whose problems were not insurmountable, but Glenn Ericson had also hinted that Michael and Anne's marriage was troubled at times, too.

Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts when he heard the doctor saying that he needed to return to his family. Sherlock barely remembered to thank the doctor before he sank back into his mind.

So rarely did he forget to use his deductive reasoning to solve these types of mysteries, and yet a glaring solution had stared him in the face and he'd not even glanced its way.

It didn't sit well with him, to say the least.

When he shook himself from his thoughts, Sherlock realized almost a full hour had passed since his call to Jwala Bakshi had ended. Deciding he should tell Molly what he'd learned, he left the lab and made his way to the A&E.

He had just spotted Molly wheeling a cart down the hallway, when a shrieking woman's call for help sounded on the other side of the department's large open area.

Sherlock had only seen Molly in one other emergent situation there at the hospital, and it had been an artificial one of his own making. At the time, he'd been so distracted making sure all of the pieces fell into place; he hadn't actually seen her portion of the charade.

This time, however, was no act.

The woman who came rushing through the A&E doors was holding a small child in her arms, and she hadn't ceased crying in spite of having the few hospital employees' attention.

Molly was no exception. She'd immediately whirled around and ran to a collapsible gurney, pushing it toward the two figures in the doorway.

Sherlock watched as the three nursing staff members, the only other doctor in the department, and Molly convened around the distraught woman and her charge.

He could see that the child, a young boy, was conscious and seemed alert enough, but beyond that, Sherlock could not make out what was happening. Curiosity got the better of him, and he eased his way forward until he could make out what the woman saying.

Another motorist had crashed into the woman's car while she and her son were trying to leave the city. She had tried to dial Emergency, but had only reached a dead line. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling desperate, she'd carried her child to the nearest hospital she could find.

Sherlock could see that she was distressed to the point of hysteria, and the hospital staff was trying its hardest to calm her and get necessary information about the accident and about her son.

When she said that the other vehicle's driver might be dead, everyone drew up short.

And that was when Sherlock saw a shift in Molly.

She started barking orders, instructing the other doctor and two of the nurses to take an ambulance over to the crash site and see if they could determine for themselves the condition of the motorist.

Molly and the one remaining nurse—a woman named Susan—then trundled the weeping boy onto the gurney and pushed him into the nearest treatment bay, the mother following close on their heels. A blue divider curtain fell into place, concealing its three occupants.

Sherlock didn't even realize that Molly had noticed his presence until she reappeared just as quickly.

"Sherlock," she demanded impatiently, "Hurry up and get back here." And then she was gone again.

At any other time, he might have almost thought it comical; the way he looked over his shoulder as if another Sherlock, this one a Barts employee, might be standing just out of his periphery.

As he was the only person left in the main thoroughfare of the A&E, he faced forward once more, blinking confusedly as he moved to that curtain and to Molly beyond.

Now that he was in close proximity to the patient, he could see that the child could not have been older than five. Molly was asking the boy's mother for details on the accident.

"He came out of nowhere. He broadsided us at a traffic light. He didn't even stop," She said, fluttering her fingers in distress as she had to raise her voice over her son's wails.

"What side of your car did he hit?"

"The passenger side," she sniffled. "William's side. It caused the whole car frame to buckle, so I had to break my wind screen to climb out and then pull Will out through the broken rear window." She shuddered as she spoke, clearing reliving every second of what had transpired.

Sherlock stood to the side, unsure of what Molly had pulled him into the treatment area for.

It soon became apparent when she began gently palpating the boy's torso while his mother and Susan held him still.

"Sherlock, can you please come here? I think Will could use some company," she said, sending a friendly smile to the small boy, whose tear-filled eyes were too scrunched shut to notice. "Will, I'm Molly, and this is my friend Sherlock. He's going to help you feel better."

Sherlock stared at Molly. It wasn't that he necessarily disliked children. It was more that he'd never had an easy time being around to them, even when he was a boy, himself. It had proven a cyclical thing, and the more he was alienated from his peers, the less conversant in "child" he'd become.

Slowly, he made his way to the head of the bed, coming to stop alongside Molly.

"What do I do?" He muttered.

"Talk to him," she replied impatiently as she dug a pen out of the breast pocket of her lab coat.

"Yes, but about what? This isn't my area."

Molly whispered, "Ask him about school. Anything. But be nice," before she raised her voice to a louder volume. "It looks like he has a broken arm, but we'll have to take him to radiology to confirm. I'm just taking his vitals and making sure there is any other external trauma before we do any x-rays or ultrasounds."

Sherlock looked down on the crying boy, his brain flailing as he tried to speak.

"William," he said frankly.

Perhaps it was the sudden influx of a man's deep timbre after the sole voices of his mother and Molly, but the child's sobs decreased minutely and his eyes slid open a crack to watch Sherlock, who decided to take Molly's advice for discussion topics.

"Tell me about your studies."

"What?" Hiccupped Will, wiping his prodigiously runny nose on the back of his uninjured arm. Sherlock had to fight down a grimace.

"Are you in school?"

"Y—yes." Will looked confused, but he continued to stare up at Sherlock, his brown eyes still watering, the tears streaking down his chubby cheeks.

"What year?" Sherlock pressed.

"Primary One. Mrs. Grady's class."

"I don't know who that is."

"She's my teacher," Will explained, starting to look at the people around him. His free hand started plucking at a bauble in the cheap knit blanket beneath him.

Sherlock turned to Molly, who was pressing a stethoscope to the boy's chest. She gave him a "Keep Going" nod of encouragement. He sighed and turned back to her patient.

"Primary school is the most formative period of schooling for children. What have you learned?"

If Will thought Sherlock confusing, he didn't let on. Instead, he started rattling off activities—Sherlock wouldn't call them subjects—that he and his classmates participated in on a daily basis.

"Reading is my favorite," Will told Sherlock, his tone leveling out more and more until he sounded almost chipper as he detailed the premises of several books in one, disjointed sentence.

"The Little Red Hen ate green ham? Why? Wasn't it spoiled?" Truly, children's literature was baffling.

"No," exclaimed Will with a mix of a giggle and an exasperated sigh. He launched into a more detailed book report, only _barely_ managing to make the plotlines discernible into two books' worth.

Sherlock began constructing a mental flowchart, but it only helped so much, so he decided to change the subject.

"Do you have science classes?"

"Yes," the boy said, his voice picking up in excitement. "Last week we got to do an experiment." It came out sounding more like, 'sper-ment', but Sherlock tamped down the urge to tell the child to enunciate.

"What kind of experiment?" He asked.

Will recalled, "We got to see if egg shells have holes in them. My friend, Emma, broke her egg, so I shared mine and got to put a star on our star chart. If I—ow," he whimpered when Molly rotated his swollen wrist.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart" she soothed. "I need to see what is wrong with your arm, and I have to move it to do that. I'm afraid it will hurt some more before I'm done, but I'll be very, very careful."

"It's okay," Will said, giving her a clumsy, conciliatory pat on the top of her head with his good hand.

"You were telling me about your star chart at school?" Sherlock reminded him.

The boy brightened once more.

"If I get twenty stars before summer holidays, I get a toy from Mrs. Grady's treasure chest and I already have eighteen, so I think I'll get it." He smiled proudly up at Sherlock.

At this, Sherlock looked up sharply, his gaze darting from Molly over to Will's mother, who ducked her head and refused to make eye contact as a distressed flush returned to her cheeks.

He turned his head back to Molly. She only gave him the smallest of headshakes before she went back her examination of the boy, now poking his toes with her pen to make sure they still had reflexivity.

"I'm sure you will," Sherlock managed, giving the boy a tight smile.

Molly came to the preliminary conclusion that the boy was uninjured beyond his arm. With a bracing smile, she addressed Will again.

"It looks like you're strong and healthy; just that hurty arm. Let's go see what I need to do to help it get better."

The little boy nodded, watching carefully as Molly helped fold his arm to his chest while the nurse went to get a wheelchair for him. As they waited for Susan's return, Molly explained to him what was going to happen, her soft voice pitched just cheerfully enough that Will seemed to relax further.

They then made their way to the radiology department. Sherlock fell into step with Will's mother, whose name he'd learned was Cynthia Hamill. She had calmed down when she had some assurance that her was not gravely injured. Now, she just showed the same strain that every other human had borne for the past nine days.

"You haven't told him," he murmured to her.

It wasn't a question, but she still confirmed it, after a pregnant pause.

"No."

"Why not?"

She sighed and rubbed at her temple.

"A first because I thought it was too soon to tell him and then because I realized I don't know how to do it. Or if I should."

Sherlock watched Molly pushing the boy in his borrowed wheelchair, bending down to say something. He could just make out Will's giggle of reply.

"Do you think he hasn't already figured it out? He seems bright enough, or at least engaged enough."

She gave a hysterical chuckle.

"I don't have to wonder. I know he has figured out some of it. He's asked a lot of questions. But he's still a little boy and I don't know how to tell him that we'll all be dead in a few days."

Molly steered Will into a dark room. By the time Sherlock and Cynthia made it through the doorway, Molly was helping Will stand without jarring his arm and helping him up onto a stool.

They stood silhouetted against the white-blue glow of light boxes lining the back wall, both of them dwarfed by the large x ray machine dominating the center of the room.

Cynthia and Sherlock watched through a lead window from behind a partition as Molly carefully positioned the boy's arm on the x-ray table while the nurse stood waiting with a lead apron to place around his torso.

She was once again explaining every step to Will as she worked.

"The radiation technologists aren't here today, Will, but Susan and I will do this as quickly as possible. We're going to take three different pictures of the bones in your arm, which means we're going to have to move it in between each picture. It might hurt some, but it's very important that you stay completely still while we're taking the picture, all right?"

As they took the x rays, Sherlock knew that Will was likely in considerable pain, but he remained quiet as Molly twisted his arm in various positions.

And watching Molly—who was ever so gentle with the small, hurting child—work so hard to do something that wasn't even remotely in her job description, all because she believed in helping others….

Well, Sherlock suddenly felt unmoored by the immense _waste_ of it all.

He couldn't triangulate where the burning in his chest was coming from, but he knew he felt it most when he looked in on both the child and the woman in the next room.

It felt like a hot weight, and he didn't know what to do about it.

"Are you alright?" Cynthia's voice broke Sherlock out of his stare, and he realized he was breathing heavily.

He managed a minute jerk of his shoulders, as if flicking off her concern. Though she didn't say anything, Cynthia still seemed to possess an inkling of what was bothering Sherlock, for she gave him a tiny, slow nod before turning back to look in on her son.

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock and Molly stumbled back into 221b Baker Street. Without conferring with each other, they both headed to the lounge's two chairs and collapsed in them.

From his usual chair, Sherlock watched Molly, who was sitting absolutely still with her eyes shut. She must have felt his gaze on her, for she eventually blinked them open again.

"Cynthia Hamill can't decide whether to tell her son about what is going to happen," he began.

Molly nodded for him to continue.

"Why wouldn't she tell him the truth? She told me she thinks he suspects something is wrong and has asked her several questions."

"I don't envy her," Molly began carefully. "I'm glad I don't have to figure those things out."

Sherlock frowned, still trying to grasp why it wasn't a cut and dried thing.

"But why is it hard? Isn't it kinder to be honest?"

He watched as her face grew impossibly sad, as she knitted her fingers together in her lap, as she said, "I suppose it's something instinctive; the desire to protect your child from things like that. From anything that would terrify him or make him sad."

When she didn't say anything further, he asked her, "What do you think you would do if he were your child?"

Molly's brown eyes met his, and he felt a bit exposed under her scrutiny.

She was quiet for what felt like several minutes before replying, "I think I would tell him the truth. As you said, he already has picked up on other peoples' emotions and has likely heard some pretty dire conversations. I think it would do more harm than good and only serve to make the end even more horrific for a child his age."

Sherlock nodded, glad that he wasn't just committing one more insensitive gaffe for feeling the way he did.

He'd fallen into the habit of using those closest to him as his compasses, directing him in some of the more discrete social mores that he might blunder otherwise. Having Molly agree with him made him feel like he was somehow less _other_; like he might actually be complying with a societal normative for once. Something at which other acquaintances had told him he failed, far too often.

"Thank you for your help today, Sherlock," she murmured.

"You're welcome."

They sat together in companionable silence until Molly suddenly stood up, startling Sherlock with her rapid switch from utter stillness to agitated action.

"What's wrong?" He asked her.

"I shouldn't be sitting around. There're plenty of things I should be doing right now. I've not even thought about Michael Brown today, and we're no closer to figuring out what happened to him."

She must have seen some shift in Sherlock, for she squinted at him in confusion and asked, "What?"

"I was on my way up to tell you, but I got to the A&E just as Cynthia and William Hamill arrived. I spoke to Michael Brown's GP, Jwala Bakshi this morning."

Molly blinked in surprise.

"You did?"

"I found him on the hospital server. That's what I was working on until I came upstairs."

"What did he say?"

Sherlock described his conversation with the doctor, particularly the doctor's suggestion that perhaps Michael Brown had killed himself.

She slowly slumped back into her chair as Sherlock spoke, her eyes losing focus as she weighed his words.

"It… I guess it would explain a lot. I had no idea about a mandatory retirement age for CAA pilots," she said slowly. "But to do it on an airplane full of passengers and other crew members…. That sounds more like a psychosis than depression. If what everyone has told us about him is true, suicidal tendencies would have to have been rather rapidly set on."

"Well, we have only heard his wife's and best friend's perspective. It's possible they missed the signs, or that they _wish_ they'd missed the signs," Sherlock suggested.

Molly continued to look off to some indefinable middle distance as she thought. Finally, though, she seemed to lose whatever wind she'd had minutes before and she sank further into her seat.

"I was so sure something felt wrong about it. But I didn't let myself see the obvious, even as an objective party. I got set on the idea '_Michael Brown was murdered_', and I don't know what it means that I didn't even consider that alternative."

"If it's any comfort to you, Molly, I didn't consider it, either."

Her mouth kicked up in a small semblance of an amused smile as she replied, "Funnily enough, it is."

* * *

The next two days felt oddly disjointed.

Though they still had not discussed what had transpired two nights before, Molly had not even made a pretense of sleeping in John's old bedroom. The night after The Incident, she'd apparently come to a decision. She'd shuffled directly into Sherlock's room and climbed into her assumed side of his bed; and then again the night after that.

Though she didn't press herself against him or touch him in any way, Sherlock was very aware of her body lying beside his on the mattress, and he'd woken several times both nights to look over at her (certainly not to make sure she was still there, he'd assured himself) before sleep had reclaimed him.

He tried to dredge up at least a token complaint, but he just couldn't manage it. And Molly had watched him carefully as she'd climbed into his bed. Apparently he wasn't displaying many outward signs of unease. If he was honest with himself, he didn't _feel_ any disquiet having her there. On the contrary, Sherlock was clocking several more hours of sleep than he ever did on his own.

So they continued as they were, and Sherlock had no reason to believe any upcoming night would be at all different.

Both mornings, the pair had woken, gone through their usual beginning-of-day routines, and then trudged back to Barts. Molly tried telling Sherlock that he didn't need to escort her anywhere, but his ruffle-feathered umbrage at the mere suggestion that he was somehow babysitting her had the sentence dying on her lips.

They spoke no more of it, and he continued to accompany her. Sherlock was surprised at how much time he ended up spending up in the A&E rather than in the relative isolation of the lab. He found himself actually helping Molly, even doing some minor nursing tasks during the one emergency that found its way into the hospital during those forty-eight hours.

Toward the end of the second day, Sherlock pulled Molly aside from an uneventful shift and informed her that they'd been invited to John and Mary's for dinner.

She'd been subdued the whole day and he could tell that she wasn't feeling particularly sociable, but she agreed without voicing either excitement or antipathy.

John and Mary lived in a neighborhood about halfway between Barts and Sherlock's flat. They'd moved there shortly before their wedding, and though they had discussed buying a house further out of the city proper, they'd never made the move.

Though it wasn't quite the space of the Baker Street flat, they'd made it a warm and welcoming home. Even Sherlock couldn't find much to criticize about it.

That night, John prepared some frozen steaks (by then all meat importers had stopped operating, so anything in the grocery store would be suspect). They uncorked a good bottle of wine, and sat down to a rather nice meal, all things considered.

They had only eaten a few bites before John turned to Sherlock. "What have you been up to these past few days? You've been quiet."

When Sherlock thought about all that had transpired, he realized he didn't have the slightest idea where to begin. He shot a baffled look at Molly, but she was distracted, pushing a Brussels sprout (also from the freezer) around on her plate, so he returned his gaze to his friend.

"Molly is still working days at the hospital, so I've been occupying myself in the Barts lab."

Finally, Molly chimed in. "That's not quite true. Sherlock has also been helping me with patients in the A&E."

The surprise on John's and Mary's faces could not even remotely be described as complimentary. Sherlock wished he could be offended, but those eloquent expressions of dismay were appropriate.

"What?" He asked, still defensive in spite of the veritable shock of Molly's revelation.

"Nothing at all," soothed Mary. "That's wonderful of you both. My office shut down before the news was even finished breaking and goodness knows there was plenty we still could have done."

"Spending time with your husband is important, too," Molly insisted with a soft smile.

Mary nodded in thanks, clearing her throat and turning her attention to slicing off another bite of her steak.

"Molly and I also did a little side investigation into a suspicious death, but that's pretty well wrapped up," Sherlock continued.

Apparently this was no less shocking to John and Mary than the idea that Sherlock had been working as a nursemaid.

"You are still getting cases?" Mary asked with no small amount of amazement.

"Well, this was an independent investigation. I haven't had a client approach me, if that's what you mean," Sherlock explained before taking a dainty bite of meat.

"So where did you come across a suspicious death case that warranted investigation?" John asked. "What with the rioting going on, it seems like there should be any number of violent deaths being reported."

"The Barts morgue, at least, isn't getting too many bodies," Molly explained with a slight grimace. "There just aren't the retrieval resources, so… don't go for any impromptu swims in the Thames," she petered out lamely.

Sherlock answered John's initial question. "Molly was the one who actually identified it as suspicious. Specifically, a man who died the day before the news broke."

Molly and Sherlock proceeded to recount the strange death of Michael Brown to their audience. Neither noticed that the couple's attention was focused more on the strange, tag-team storytelling method that the two had adopted than on the case itself. But when they finished their tale, Mary and John both made noises of interest over its conclusion.

"Now I have to decide whether to tell Captain Brown's widow what we think happened," Molly said with a quiet sigh.

"I wouldn't," said Mary bluntly.

"No?" Molly asked, though she looked relieved.

"From what you've described, it sounds like she was happy to believe the best of her husband and that it was just a case of his medicine not working correctly. It's kinder, and I don't think it would accomplish anything to shatter that illusion.

Molly breathed out a relieved, "Thank you," and the conversation turned to more banal topics.

Sherlock was distracted again by how quietly Molly was still behaving, and he couldn't figure out what was bothering her, or why that, in turn, should bother him; but he found his gaze wandering to her periodically throughout the rest of the main course.

After they'd cleared their plates, Mary returned to the dining area with a pan.

"It's a box mix, I'm afraid, but cake seemed like a necessary thing on a day like today," she explained.

"Ah," Sherlock said, brightly. "See there, Molly? A birthday cake for you."

Everyone stopped in his and her tracks. John and Mary turned sharp gazes to Molly, who was looking back at Sherlock with an inscrutable expression on her face.

"Molly," John asked gently, "Is today your birthday?"

Molly nodded, just once, and a lone tear dripped from her face down onto her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

* * *

Though she was clearly mortified by her display of emotion at dinner, Molly managed to gather her composure and tried to present a cheerful front through the rest of the evening.

But Sherlock was not fooled, and he was unsurprised when she spent their walk from the Watson's flat back to Baker Street in subdued silence.

Hanging his coat on the rack by the door, Sherlock watched her as he untied his scarf. She doffed her own jacket and walked slowly over to the couch. She seated herself with a low sigh, and proceeded to stare into space.

"Was I wrong in mentioning that it's your birthday?" He asked her, genuinely confused.

She jerked in surprise at his voice, shaking her head quickly. "No, of course not. It was nice of you to think of it. I'm being stupid," she said miserably.

He walked further into the room, stopping so that he stood between her and whatever she was seeing, in hopes that she would look at him.

"Then why are you upset? You've been upset the whole day. Please tell me if I've done something."

"No, really," she insisted. "I've never really cared much for my birthday. My mum died giving birth to me, and I could never muster much enthusiasm for the day after I found out."

Sherlock frowned down at her. "Then why did you cry at dinner?"

She sighed once more, before finally dragging her eyes up to meet his. "Realizing that I should have cared?" She suggested weakly.

He couldn't find a reply to that.

"How did you even _know_ that it's my birthday?" Molly asked, genuinely baffled.

It was Sherlock's turn to have to fumble for an answer that made sense. He sat down next to her on the couch, gathering up his violin and bow as he thought.

"I'm sure you've told me the date before," he tried.

"Possibly," she agreed. "But why would you remember it?"

Sherlock felt like he was exposing something of himself as he admitted, "I don't know why I remember your birthday. I've just never forgotten it, I suppose."

Molly did not reply with words.

Instead, she leaned forward suddenly, turning and gripping his shoulders, forcing him to lean forward, too.

Before he could figure out what she was doing, she closed the distance between then and touched her lips to his.

It was over in less than a second, and in the next, she was shooting up from her seat, saying, "Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry," as she tried to get away and around the coffee table in front of the couch, her cheeks already suffusing with an ashamed, red flush.

Sherlock didn't realize he'd moved until he saw his fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her back down beside him.

Still, she ducked her head, refusing to look at him, embarrassed tears sheening her eyes. Not sure how he could even remotely remember how to move, Sherlock watched his own, free hand come up to cup her cheek, turning her head to face him.

And then he was leaning forward just as quickly as she had a few, short seconds before.

And then he was kissing her.

At first, she didn't respond, and he could see her eyes, huge and round with shock. But just as he was thinking he had made a colossal mistake, they fluttered shut, and she pressed her mouth more firmly to his.

He felt her rapidly exhale through her nose as she curled her hands into the shirt fabric at his waist. Her fingers brushing against such a sensitive spot had him expelling his own air, and then tentatively opening his mouth to brush his tongue against her lips.

Sherlock did not make it a habit of kissing people. One might say he actively avoided it. But holding Molly close, kissing her this way—their breath shared, their tongues dancing, their hands stroking—had him thinking that he would be content to linger there for a long time. .

Molly leaned back slightly, brushing the tip of her nose lightly, sweetly across his before reclaiming his lips once more.

The world condensed further and further around them, until Sherlock wasn't aware of anything but each point where he and Molly touched.

* * *

…

* * *

**Note: ** This was one of my blockier chapters so the delay was a bit of a long one. I knew what I wanted to happen, but I just couldn't get the words down; and then I received some bad real life news right toward the end, so this probably isn't my best writing. For that I apologize.

Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited, followed and reviewed. It continues to be what encourages me to keep writing this story.

I received some really lovely guest reviews for the last chapter, and I wish I could send personal thanks to those people, but just know that I truly appreciated _everyone's_ wonderful, kind words.


	6. Chapter 6

*****WARNING*****

This chapter contains scenes (or actually, its entirety) of a sensual nature. If you are underage or do not care for that, feel free to go to the next chapter, which I am posting concurrently with this one. Nothing plot-wise happens in this chapter; it is merely a continuation of the last scene in Chapter 5.

* * *

**_In the End_**

**Chapter Six**

* * *

_Now it's high tide. Time I untied and brought back that man that you thought a mystic so many moons ago._

Hey Maria, I've been thinking I'm afraid... afraid of dying before I've made peace with the least thing I've done in my time.

_-The Guggenheim Grotto, "Cold Truth", __Waltzing Alone_

* * *

Poets wrote verse about it, using words to describe how it had the ability to be exquisite or frightening; joyful or borne of sorrow; soft or ruthless.

Musicians used notes and lyrics to describe its power, compulsion, and its splendor.

Artists put it to paint, using brushes and colors to tell stories of its potential for beauty or ugliness.

While its main function was practical—in fact, necessary—to humans, it became a form of expression; an expression of affection, endearment, comfort, and, in the best of times, love.

* * *

She'd had her share of heartbreaks and disappointments in her life. She'd had a few lovers and boyfriends. She didn't think she was cheapening what she'd shared with some of them, because some of those relationships had been wonderful. But Molly would be lying to herself if she didn't admit that there was something visceral in holding Sherlock Holmes' body close to hers.

Perhaps it was a culmination she was feeling. A culmination of joy over of years of longing and dreaming being realized, combined with her mind trying to cast aside the resignation she had forced it to accept.

Whatever the case, all of the feelings vying for position in her warred with some instinctive desire to cease all thought.

At the same time, she wanted to remember everything. Until whatever darkness or nothingness greeted her, she just couldn't bring herself to forget the feeling of Sherlock kissing her.

While she had the opportunity to be distracted by worried thoughts and questions, instead she was hyper-aware of every sound around her. She could hear each ridge of his fingers as they brushed up and down her shirt-covered back. She could hear the creak of the sofa beneath them. She could her their hearts beating mad tattoos against each other's chests.

After what felt like a nanosecond or a month, Sherlock broke the kiss. But he didn't relinquish his tight grip on her as he buried his face in the hollow between her neck and shoulder. His heavy breath travelled under the collar of her shirt, causing her to shiver at its warmth.

Just as she thought this was his way of winding down before extracting his hold from her, she felt his lips press to the side of her neck. It was a sipping kiss, unbearably sweet but one that still ignited her nerve endings.

She sighed as she brought her own hands up to Sherlock's neck, her thumb tracing the lines and cords that showed his wiry strength. Each sinew she felt was its own path to her damnation and her salvation.

Sherlock moved his lips from point to point on her neck, pausing to kiss each spot reverently before going to the next. Molly tilted her head back, her eyes finding their distorted reflection in the brass rim of the overhead light. They were almost indistinguishable, one form huddled together on the dark mass of the sofa.

His mouth pressing into the vee formed by the tendons of her throat had Molly's head dropping back further while her eyes slid shut. She brought her hands up to his head, weaving his soft curls in between her fingers.

The soft scratch of her nails against his scalp had Sherlock _hmm_ing with approval. She felt his hands reflexively grip the material of her shirt as he brought his lips back to hers once more. Their bodies began to press harder and harder against each other, their breath quickened, and Molly felt she couldn't hold on to him hard enough.

But the sofa was probably not an ideal place for lovemaking, so she regretfully drew back. Sherlock actually frowned when she did so, so she quickly leaned forward to place kisses on both of his cheeks, soft placeholders to tell him she was nowhere near ready to stop.

"Can we go to your bed?" she whispered.

Sherlock nodded, and she could see him swallow hard before he rose from the sofa, holding out a hand to pull her to her feet. As soon as she was standing, he set his large hands on her sides, pulling her body flush with his once more and leaning down to stroke his lips across hers again and again.

She lost herself in it, in the warmth his body and the soft reverence of his touch. Because reverent was the only way could possibly describe the way his fingers moved across her. She shivered at the sensations coupled with the rush of emotion that he brought to the surface of her very being.

She couldn't be sure of what he was feeling. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, but whether it was consternation or passion, she didn't know. All she could tell was that his hands alternated between ghosting over her to pressing and pulling her closer yet to him.

Molly broke the kiss once more, taking one of those beautiful hands of his and bringing it to her mouth. She stoked the backs of his fingers as she kissed the swell of his palm just below his thumb, once, twice, three times. She opened her heavy lids to see Sherlock watching her in a way that left her breathless.

She'd seen him in moments of heightened vulnerability, but she'd never seen him with quite the softness that he now radiated. She'd often thought of his blue eyes as flinty._ Here_, though, there was no other way to describe them than soft. Watchful, yes, but not a watchfulness borne of anything other than that same reverent story his hands had so recently told.

Gathering an unsteady breath, Molly kept his hand in hers, pulling him around the coffee table and through the sitting room. No, not pulling. Leading. In fact, a few times his body bumped into hers, spurring her on as they walked down the dark hallway. Molly smiled bashfully to herself, pleased to know that she wasn't the only one who was quite eager for the room at the hall's end.

When they reached it, Molly softly closed the door as Sherlock leaned over to his bedside table, flicking on the lamp. It bathed the room in a dim glow, but she didn't spare much time to admire the ambience. Instead, she reached for Sherlock once more, pulling him back down to her

Their tongues caressed while their breath mingled, and once again Molly felt and heard her heartbeat increase its pace. Suddenly, some shift occurred and then Sherlock was walking her backwards until they reached his door. His palm braced on the wood behind her stopped her from bumping her head. Not that she would have noticed, because she was too busy relishing the feeling of Sherlock's solid body pressing desperately to hers. Its warmth was a welcome contradiction to the coolness of the door.

As he kissed her more and more desperately, Molly was only vaguely aware of her hands tugging at his shirt. It was only when Sherlock made a low sound in his throat that she became fully cognizant to the fact that she'd released his belt buckle and had was now running her hands over the skin of his waist and lower back.

And then she felt the cool air hit her front (though only barely, for his torso steadily brushed against hers) as he worked his fingers nimbly down the buttons of her own blouse. Once he had it fully opened, he impatiently pushed it off of her shoulders. It stopped at her elbows, for he didn't let her pull any further away from the door to let the shirt fully fall away.

She shuddered when his lips tickled their way down to her jaw, then her neck, her collar bones, and finally along the tops of her breasts as he kissed along the lace edging of her bra.

Molly moaned as he paid homage to each bit of skin that he'd revealed. He moved his mouth back up her torso, placing a sweet kiss beside both shoulder straps of her bra before he pushed them off and down her upper arms.

She wasn't still while he did this. Surprisingly, she managed not to pop any of the buttons off of his shirt as she furiously worked to undo them. He kissed yet again as he assisted her by shrugging out the garment. His hand caught in one of the cuffs, so he impatiently tugged at it while she shimmied her arms free of her own shirt, and then unfastened her bra. All of the fabric fell to the floor in an indistinguishable heap as she made a small noise of of triumph before hoisting herself up on tiptoe and wrapping her arms around his shoulders while his own arms banded tightly around her waist.

She made a soft sound as the pale hair on his chest tickled her flesh, and then he was spinning her away from the door and to the bed. He somehow lifted and pushed her at the same time so that she lay across the width of the mattress. She vaguely felt the mattress dip further as he climbed onto it. Within a half a second of his lowering her to the bed, he was covering her once more, laying half on top of her as their hands stroked each other.

His fingers tickled slightly as they brushed up and down her side, over and over, before he finally cupped her breast, his thumb strumming its peak. She gasped audibly at the feeling. He was a musician, after all, and he was making her sing for him.

All the while, he watched her with that new, exciting softness she was starting to suspect was tailored for her and her alone.

When his lips replaced his hand, she could have sworn she saw stars, her nails digging into the muscle of his arms, bent at her sides as he braced himself over her. Sherlock lavished the same attention to her other breast, and she realized she was very nearly panting, her hips twitching slightly in an effort to get closer to him.

It was an adequate telegraph, because he pulled away from her, running his palm down her sternum and belly. He looked up at her, a curl falling into his eye as he fiddled with the button of her trousers.

Rather than speak her encouragement, Molly brought her hand to his neck again, stroking her thumb over the throbbing pulse she could see beating beneath his flesh. She lifted her head slightly, replacing her thumb with her lips, sucking gently on his skin until he was panting the same as she. She felt the material of her jeans loosen at her hips all without his ever breaking further away from her.

She caressed his chest, reveling in the play of his muscles beneath her hands. Finally, she reached the closure of his trousers. She was glad she'd had the forethought to unbuckle his belt earlier. It meant that much less effort now that she was well on her way coming undone. Molly had them unbuttoned and unzipped in no time. She brought her hands up the sides of his chest and lightly scratched her nails down his sides before she curled her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pants. He lifted himself slightly to assist her as she pushed them over his hips and down his thighs.

He rolled to his side and pushed them the rest of the way off before he returned to her with fervor, pulling her tightly against him so the he could kiss her over and over. She gave a small noise of protest when he finally broke their kiss, but she gladly watched as he sat back on his knees and pulled her remaining articles of clothing down her legs, letting them drop to the floor behind him.

He cupped her ankle and then slowly ran his hand up her leg. When he reached the soft flesh of her inner thighs, she all but shimmered with anticipation. He looked at her carefully, possibly looking for any sign of protest, possibly just taking in her flushed skin, and then he moved his hand up further. His shudder when he touched the wet warmth between her legs matched hers.

His touch was still tentative and his expression uncertain. She realized he was likely not well-versed in this type of contact, so she gently ran her hand down his arm, down his strong wrist, before she lay her much smaller hand over his. Slowly, she started guiding him, showing him how she liked to be touched.

One thing could always be said of Sherlock Holmes: He was a fast learner. Soon, she was fisting the duvet in a death grip, panting words of encouragement to him as her hips rose and fell to the steady grace of his fingers. She shuddered apart, feeling like her one anchor was his hand, pulling her response with each stroke as golden warmth suffused her entire body.

She lay there boneless, licking lips gone dry from gasping breaths. Finally, she gathered her wits enough to take stock of Sherlock. He'd moved his hand back down to the skin of her inner thigh, idly stroking as he watched with that same, beautiful softness. Overcome, she reared up enough that she could wrap him in her arms again, pulling him back down on top of her as they kissed fervently.

She reached a hand between the press of their bodies, and took him in her hand. He gave a muffled sound of surprised pleasure as she started stroking him firmly. She didn't manage to do so very long before he was stuttering, his lips breaking away from hers over and over again, returning to kiss her more and more desperately. His hips circled with the slide of her hand, and he finally dropped his head down to her shoulder, shuddering all over as he fought his desire to rut against her until he found release.

"Molly," he whispered desperately. "Molly, I need—I need to—" his words bit off on a moan.

She didn't need him to say anything more. She released him from her hand, and lay back on the bed. She started tugging him, pulling until finally, _finally_, he lay fully on top of her. The soft skin of her thighs brushing against his hips had him shaking only slightly less than when she'd touched him so intimately. Her own hips jerked at the feeling of him pressed against her, so warm and hard.

She once again took him in her hand, guiding him into her. They both moaned as, with a push of his hips, he sheathed himself inside her.

Sherlock's eyes widened dramatically before they squeezed shut at the onslaught of sensations from being joined with her. Molly, for her part, lay still, adjusting to his presence and then waiting for him to get used to their closeness.

After several moments where the only sound in the room was their deep breathing, Sherlock began tentatively moving, his body sliding over hers and in her with more and more confidence at each thrust of his hips. Molly curled herself around him as much as she could, her ear pressed to his chest. She could hear the pounding of his heart and feel the vibrations of each groan and gasp he made. She realized she was whimpering after only a few short minutes, feeling another climax rapidly shoring up in her.

Soon, Sherlock was moving with fervor, his body pushing Molly's into mattress beneath them. As he moved, his hands scrabbled for purchase, gripping her arm, her shoulder, wrapping around her until they were a huddled mass, rocking together furiously in a rising tide.

Molly worked her hand between them, and with a few strokes of her fingers above where they were joined, she was flung off of a precipice. Her back arched, pushing her closer to Sherlock, who'd devolved into artless thrusting, his voice now a constant stream of moans and a litany of her name, over and over again.

She wasn't sure if he could even hear her, but she raised her lips to the shell of ear, placing a kiss to it as she whispered, "I'm here. Let go," to him. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it was what he needed. Whatever the case, Sherlock gave a low shout, suddenly buckling over her, his jaw clenched, the cords of his neck pronounced as his hips jerked against hers, and then stilled.

He collapsed bonelessly on top of Molly She knew he'd start to crush her soon, but she was happy to wallow for the time being. She cupped the back of his neck, her fingers sifting through the damp curls at his nape. Over his shoulder, could see the beads of sweat covering the length of his body, and she knew she hadn't fared much better.

Turning her head and kissing his temple, she sighed contentedly as he nuzzled her shoulder. The rasps of his stubbled cheeks made her still-sensitive skin break into goosebumps. She was hot and sticky, his weight was slowly cutting off her air supply, and she really should move before her muscles cramped.

She stayed still, not wanting to leave that place, that moment.

She wouldn't have had it any other way.


	7. Chapter 7

**_In the End_**

**_Chapter Seven_**

* * *

_Soon your touch will disappear, something that I recognize, something that I should have come to fear. Trace the lines upon your face. They tell a tale you can't erase. _

_No one's ever looked at me that way._

_-Matthew and the Atlas, "Counting Paths", Daytrotter Sessions_

* * *

Alfred, Lord Tennyson called music the 'source of all gladness.' On Earth, it was an art form and a measured skill. It told stories and soothed cries of distress. Most importantly, it served as an outlet of expression. Not just keys stroked on a piano or bows running against the strings of violins. Not just notes sung by the sweetest sopranos or the strongest of basses.

Music was everywhere; in the wind playing through sun-dappled leaves, in the constant hum of activity in cities, in the quiet beat of nightfall, in the sizzle of snow falling on snow, and in rain pattering against darkened windows.

Music was in laughter and sobs and yells and whispers.

Music was in the soft sighs shared between lovers.

And the silence that took music's place was a melody of its own kind.

* * *

The plain, white candles Molly had dug out of some cabinet in Mrs. Hudson's flat were probably intended for more utilitarian purposes that romantic. Scattered across various surfaces of Sherlock's furniture, however, he had to admit that they changed to room somehow. The flickering flames made everything softer and warmer. Their glow caught on Molly's skin, making its usually pale alabaster look almost gold.

She lay on her back in his bed, her head at the footboard, her long hair fanned out around her. She had one bare leg bent, the other crossed over it at the knee so that her right foot was free to sway in time to the music filtering from her mobile's small speaker.

He watched her from his seated position against the wooden headboard, his own legs stretched out alongside her. Everything about her was still, beyond that one, dancing foot, as if she was so immersed in the strumming music that her body only needed that one outlet of movement.

They'd spent the last twenty hours wrapped up in each other, dragging themselves out of bed only for the basic necessities before they went under yet again. Now, they'd surfaced for the longest period yet; but, still, they stayed in his bed. They conversed little, though he couldn't call it awkward.

Normally, Sherlock avoided musical distraction if he wasn't the one making it. Not that he necessarily disliked other people's music; it just didn't help him _think_ quite the same way. Still, he'd remained quiet when Molly began flicking through her phone's music library and selecting some strumming piece, before she fell back to the mattress beneath her with little grace, the phone landing beside her.

In fact, watching that small foot of Molly's swaying to the beat of the music was vaguely hypnotic, and Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from it. She'd painted her toenails a cheerful, sunshine yellow at least two weeks ago, he noticed. The lacquer looked to be of the cheaper variety, but was applied carefully with few smudges, only just starting to show a small line of new growth.

It suited her, he decided. Even now. Perhaps especially now.

He'd always seen sex and most other physical forms of intimacy as needless urges; things he was above. Prior to the night before, he'd had moments where he'd felt his blood rush. Moments where he'd felt a clutching low in his belly and a pounding in his chest, but he'd taught himself at an early age to ignore those base impulses.

Sherlock allowed himself to remember several occasions where he had looked at Molly and felt just such bursts of awareness. Molly in her Christmas dress. Molly brushing her hair over her shoulder as she worked on some tedious paperwork. Molly wrapped in a towel, trying to skirt around him in her hallway when he was hiding at her flat two years ago.

Yes, there had been other women who'd briefly piqued his interest, but Molly was a frequency sounding in his brain. One he could tune out on occasion, but never turn off.

Now, after that rushing of blood, that pounding in his chest, that _arousal_ had come to a forefront—been realized—he couldn't say he was easy with it. Not that he regretted it. No, he wouldn't insult Molly or himself by saying that. But he had also never felt less sure of his own footing. How, after making so crucial a decision, should he proceed?

He wasn't some lovestruck teen, mapping out his forever. He'd never loved anyone romantically, wasn't even sure he'd be able to identify it if he felt it, and they most certainly didn't have forever. So where did that leave him? What did _Molly_ expect of him? What did it mean that he was reacting this way to her?

She saw good in everyone. She mourned for each of her deceased patients without once losing her resolve to do her job. She worked hard to comfort and heal little boys who would be dying in a matter of days, as if they had their whole lives ahead of them.

She trusted Sherlock, even when there had been no reason why she should.

She loved Sherlock, though he'd tried his hardest to convince her not to.

So how could hedo anything _but_ respond to her touch?

Shaking himself from his reverie, Sherlock's eyes wandered over her prone form. It was a rare thing for Molly not to be hyper-aware of him. He'd once written it off as a facet of her schoolgirl crush; but then he'd realized that Molly both saw _and _observed, and she used that skill in a form of deduction that he'd never managed. Her use of that skill was what made her such an effective pathologist and her use of that skill was what made her so fascinating to him.

He'd known he appreciated her for quite some time, but it had been a strange revelation, just how much he admired her, too.

Her foot was still keeping time to the music and he could hear her humming slightly under her breath. And suddenly watching her wasn't enough.

He reached forward, taking a hold of her foot in his large hand, his thumb tickling the arch. She immediately stopped humming, but she didn't look startled or upset by his interruption. Instead, she smiled shyly at him, her eyes even darker in the candlelight.

Sherlock decided to do what he'd wanted since he started watching her. He leaned his body forward so he could press a kiss to the arch of that foot, and then the bone of her ankle, the softness of her calf, and the front of her knee. Finally, he crawled the rest of the way up her body, stopping only when he'd settled over her, her legs twined with his, her breasts warm under the knit fabric of her oversized shirt, pressed against his own, bare chest.

This type of intimacy, not just sex, but the quiet proximity they were sharing, was so very new to him. The ability to touch her and somehow telegraph his intent and have her understand it—not trying to start anything at this moment, just wanting to be close—was not something he'd ever wanted, let alone thought about having someday. And, yet, there he was.

Sherlock tentatively brought his hand up to brush some strands of hair away from Molly's face. He couldn't help but feel that this one tender touch was just as intimate as everything they'd done in the quiet shadows of his room throughout the night and well into the day. In fact, he felt even more foolish now than any other way he'd touched her so far.

Molly just looked back at him steadily, feeling the need neither to talk nor look away.

He felt her fingers idly stroking his back as they inspected each other's faces, the only sound in the room their quiet breathing and the occasional snap of a candle flame.

Finally, though, Molly's lips curved into a small smile, and against his will and better judgment, he felt the corner of his mouth quirking up in return.

She lifted her head up ever so slightly and brushed the tip of her nose across his before relaxing again into the mattress.

"Eskimo kiss," she whispered to him, though he was too distracted by her to ask for an explanation. "It's only loosely based on the actual Inuit endearment, but it's a nice thing anyway, I think."

Hesitantly, because for all their closeness, he was still so unsure of himself in so many ways, he lowered his head brushed his own nose across the round slope of her cheek, up to her temple, where he pressed his lips in a small kiss.

Far from laughing at him or making him feel in any way ridiculous, Molly simply sighed happily, pressing herself in closer to his lips.

They lay there quietly, not moving or speaking, when Molly's stomach broke the spell with a plaintive rumble. She laughed, causing the muscles of her belly to ripple against his. He lifted his head to smirk at her, once again combing his fingers through her hair as he watched her giggling.

"We haven't eaten anything since John and Mary's," he realized. He'd gone longer without food, but Molly was more accustomed to eating at regular intervals. She was still laughing as she shook her head.

"I suppose I could drag myself to the kitchen and get us something," he considered. But as he started to pull away from her, the cool air hit his chest, and he frowned at the sudden absence of her warmth. Casually, he added, "What would you like?"

She shook her head. "Whatever will be fine."

He would need to try a different tack, apparently. "You _could_ keep me company, if you wanted."

Molly's smile widened. "So long as your kitchen doesn't have a strict dress code, then I would be glad to join you," she replied.

Sherlock frowned, about to ask her why his own kitchen would have a dress code, when he realized she was playing. He'd never had much of a sense of the ridiculous, but he found he didn't want to turn the mood to a more sober note. Instead, he ran his hand up one of her bare thighs, affecting a thoughtful expression as his fingers reached the elastic band of her knickers at her hip.

"I do believe this is exactly the right apparel for this particular kitchen." He slid a finger into her waistband and snapped it gently to reiterate his point.

"If only I'd brought my diamond-encrusted pair to add a classier touch," she said with a mock sigh, giving his backside a friendly pat. "Shall we?"

He rolled himself off of her and up off of the bed, holding out a hand to pull Molly to her feet. They walked into the kitchen together, both of them hobbling a little after so little time spent on their feet in recent hours.

As they moved about the room, Sherlock kept glancing at Molly, watching as she filled a glass at the kitchen sink, drinking deeply from it before refilling it and stretching across the table to hand it to him.

He drank his fill, set the glass on the table, and turned to the cupboard, pulling its doors open and pondering its contents. As he stared at the shelves, he felt rather than saw Molly sidle up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed kiss to his shoulder blade.

"Sorry," she said, sounding anything but with her mouth muffled against his skin. "Bit of a novelty, touching you like this. I'm sure it'll wear off any second now… hmm, nope, still there."

The fact that he wasn't the least bit uncomfortable with Molly's proximity and touch—in fact, he was relishing it—sent little fissures of panic racing through him, but he couldn't pull away. He stopped his hands from straying down to cover hers. Instead, he changed the subject to safer territory.

"We have crisps, bread, sardines, a vast array of tinned soups, Wheatabix, and that horrendous treacle pudding that you insist is so delicious. Though, how any dessert that comes from a tin could be described as 'delicious' is beyond me. What's your pleasure?"

"You haven't given tinned pudding a chance," she said, pinching his side, making him jump (she'd made the mortifying discovery that it was a ticklish spot for him the third time they'd had sex; he remembered now that they'd laughed throughout the entire encounter). "But there's still time for me to show you the error of your ways. Is the cheese in the fridge? We could have toasties."

He made a noise in the affirmative, and turned to the refrigerator. As he pulled a block of Gouda from a drawer, he pondered the other items in the fridge. It was the most devoid of biohazardous materials it had ever been. He frowned at this realization; he just hadn't spent any time with his experiments in weeks now.

It bothered him that he might be changing inherently without giving himself express permission to do so. Granted, his brain certainly hadn't gone stagnant as a result of this lack of experimentation. He'd had plenty of puzzles with which he'd occupied his mind, but it was the principle of the matter that caused him unease.

If he had neglected one of his main passions, what did that say about how the oncoming apocalypse was affecting his other priorities? What did the past week mean? The past day? Was he somehow using Molly? Or, more to the point, was he torturing himself with something that, not only was he not emotionally equipped to experience, but would soon relinquish in the onslaught of humanity's end?

And what it all circled back to, what rankled and caused an itch between his shoulder blades, was just how _unbothered_ he was by this shift in his relationship with her. With his damnable inexperience and inability to figure out what it meant or what came next, he found himself in the hellish position of being the ill-informed, naïve one.

He felt like an idiot, and that was something he was not at all equipped to feel.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to find Molly looking back at him questioningly, so he cleared his throat and sought some levity while he began assembling their meal.

"It's a good thing you insisted on hauling all of this food over here. Otherwise, we might have had to make do with the frozen spinach in my freezer. There's not much else to be had."

"Sounds delicious," she said facetiously. "And healthy, which is just what I'm worrying about these days."

He smiled slightly, letting his pensive mood slip a little. "Yes, think of the green, slimy concoctions we could have made. And you're right. We need all the vitamins and minerals we can get. We'd hate to develop a deficiency in the next four days."

"I feel like such a hedonist when I dig into a bowl of leafy gree—" She cut off abruptly, her face suddenly devoid of any expression beyond the widening of her eyes and her lips moving soundlessly.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

"Vitamin K," Molly muttered, sitting down with a stunned realization of some sort.

"What about it?"

She shook her head, her eyes clearing a little in order to focus on him. "Sherlock, when we were at Michael and Anne Browns' house, what did you find in their refrigerator?"

Sherlock blinked at her, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation. "I don't know. I would hardly keep something like that floating around in my head."

"Please, try to remember?" she implored.

He sighed, but he dredged up his memory of their visit to the late airline captain's widow and the house they'd shared. "I believe it was full of standard perishable goods. Milk, eggs, butter."

Molly nodded for him to continue.

"I don't know, Molly. There were some rotting vegetables, I remember."

"Such as spinach?" she suggested.

"Yes. In fact, there was something moldy that looked vaguely like saag in a plastic container, too. But why do you ask—ah. Spinach is heavy in Vitamin K."

She nodded. "Which significantly increases your blood clotting factor if you don't have a steady state already built up."

Sherlock turned away from the food he'd been preparing, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. "Wouldn't it still stand to reason that Michael Brown was the one buying all of that spinach? His last meal was a spinach salad, purchased at a Belfast airport canteen, wasn't it?"

Molly was still out of sorts. "But… what if he didn't know? What if someone replaced his medication with placebos and, what if that someone also encouraged him to eat spinach in the days preceding his death? If he did kill himself, he wasn't particularly organized about it. That's what's bothered me. From everything we've heard about Michael Brown, was he really the type to endanger all of his passengers and crew?"

"I don't presume to know a dead man's mind," Sherlock dissembled.

Molly scoffed. "Oh, come on. You _love_ to make presumptions. That's the entire basis of your deductions. Making inferences from common behaviors and results. What do you _think_?"

He sighed. "I suppose that is the main thing that would make the suicide answer problematic. He doesn't fit the description of a person suffering from any kind of mania or self-harming mentality.

Molly suddenly stood from the table, her chair's wooden legs scraping on the linoleum as she pushed back. She hurried from the kitchen without a backward glance. Sherlock trailed behind her back down to his bedroom, where he found her already yanking off her sleep shirt and gathering street clothes from the suitcase she'd left open on the floor.

"Am I to take it that we're going out?" He asked from the doorway, watching as she somehow managed to fasten a bra while simultaneously pulling a jumper over her head.

"I need to be sure, Sherlock," she insisted.

He nodded as he straightened from the doorframe and made his way over to his closet to pull out an outfit for himself. "All right. I'll see if Mycroft can get us a car. It's a good thing the world is ending; otherwise he would be keeping tally of all of these requests I've made of him lately and would probably expect me to do some free work for him in return."

* * *

Sherlock was only mildly surprised when Molly gave their driver an address in Barking that was most certainly not the Browns' own, Eustace Road residence. He remained silent as they wove through the eerily quiet streets of London, letting thoughts about the Brown case distract him from his earlier, worrisome inner monologue.

The car finally came to a stop in front of a terraced house not much different to the Browns', though perhaps of a higher quality. Like everywhere else, general upkeep had fallen by the wayside, but that did nothing to disguise the slightly elevated wealth of the street's occupants.

Molly took a deep breath as she faced the house's front door before she reached forward and knocked firmly on the shiny wood. Sherlock stood a few steps back, watching as she flicked some switch that fully separated the focused pathologist from the sleepy, smiling Molly who'd so recently occupied his bed.

The woman who eventually opened the door frowned at them in confusion at the unfamiliar visitors.

"Yes?" She asked them by way of greeting.

"Hello, my name is Molly Hooper. I'm with St. Bartholomew's Hospital. This is Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, pointing vaguely behind her as she introduced him. "I was wondering if I might speak with Dr. Bakshi. Is this his residence?"

The woman's frown deepened. Sherlock was certain she was going to turn them away when a man stepped into sight behind her. "It's all right, Madhuri. Go back to the sitting room. The children are waiting. I'll be along shortly."

Madhuri Bakshi took the time to send one more glowering look at Molly and Sherlock before she stepped out of the doorway so her husband could take her place. The man who moved further into view was in his late fifties, his jet-black hair shot with strands of silver. His skin was still a smooth, but his eyes showed lines of age and worry.

"I remembered your name from our phone conversation, Dr. Holmes," Jwala Bakshi addressed him. Molly sent an arch look Sherlock's way upon hearing Bakshi address him with a doctor's title, but he chose to ignore her. "I'm not sure if I can give you any other information beyond what we discussed then."

Sherlock was about to reply when Molly beat him to it.

"Michael Brown didn't kill himself. I am sure of it," she said.

"What makes you say that, Ma'am?" Bakshi inquired.

"It just doesn't fit with what Anne Brown said, along with his copilot's description of him. He wouldn't have been reckless enough to endanger other people. He was murdered. It's the only explanation."

Bakshi looked angry. "If you're suggesting that Anne killed Michael—"

"I'm not," Molly interrupted. "I don't think she did it."

Sherlock turned to face her in surprise.

The doctor scoffed. "Then who did?"

"Did you recently have dinner at the Brown's house, Dr. Bakshi?" Molly asked instead of answering directly.

Sherlock wasn't sure where this was leading, but he could tell the doctor did not care for it.

"How is that relevant?"

"I'm just trying to piece together Captain Brown's final days, as I am sure _Doctor_ Holmes explained when you spoke over the phone."

Sherlock only hoped Bakshi didn't notice her facetious inflection of the word doctor.

Bakshi sighed. "We had supper together at least every two weeks. It so happens that Madhuri—my wife—and I ate over at Anne and Michael's the Saturday before his death."

"And that was the last time you saw him?" she pressed.

Dr. Bakshi nodded

"And when did you tell Captain Brown that he should supplement his diet with spinach? Was it the same night that you sneaked off and replaced his medicine with aspirin, or was that during another dinner party?"

Jwala Bakshi went ever so still. He blinked several times before he finally cleared his throat. "That is ridiculous."

"You and your wife brought a dish to share with the Brown's when you joined them for dinner that last Saturday of Michael's life. Surely a licensed physician would know the contraindications of a Protein S-deficient patient eating saag, a dish whose main ingredient is spinach," Molly replied.

"Indian cuisine is hugely prevalent in the diets of a lot of people in the United Kingdom. Just because I'm Indian myself doesn't mean—"

"No, it doesn't, but the fact that your name was on the saag's storage container certainly does," Sherlock interrupted.

Molly and Bakshi both looked sharply at him. He waved them languidly away, "Just a stupid detail I happened to forget until now. It wasn't very legible, so I didn't pay it much mind."

At this, Molly returned her accusing gaze to the doctor, who stared at them wildly for a moment before slumping. He sank down onto the front step, forcing Molly to step back so that she now stood beside Sherlock in the small front garden.

"Michael Brown was not the paragon that everyone is now remembering him to have been," Bakshi insisted tiredly, scratching his brow. "He was selfish and frivolous. He was no better than a spoiled teenager, frittering away money on stupid ventures and even stupider gadgets. When he refused to admit to the CAA that I'd diagnosed him with the protein deficiency, it was the final straw."

"Why didn't you just withhold a diagnosis? Wouldn't that have been easier?" Molly asked.

"He could have gone to another doctor. And I didn't want him to die."

"Didn't want him to die?" Now Molly was angry. Her face flushed red and her hands clenched in fists at her side. "You sabotaged his medication and fed him food that would increase blood coagulation why? Just to teach him a lesson?"

"Yes! I did!" Bakshi exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "He couldn't be bothered to consider the implications of his continuing to work as a pilot when he had a diagnosed clotting disorder."

"So you decided to take it into your hands and endanger hundreds of lives that much more?" Molly sneered. "And I still fail to see how this isn't murder."

"He was only supposed to fall ill. Pulmonary emboli only result in fatalities five percent of the time," he insisted.

"Enlighten us, Doctor, what did you intend for Brown to take way from your oh-so-helpful lesson?" Sherlock asked quietly.

Bakshi looked up at him with pleading eyes, but Sherlock only looked impassively back, offering no absolution.

"He would be dismissed from EasyJet and the Civil Aviation Authority. I would not tell them he had a prior diagnosis, so it wouldn't be in disgrace. But then he could draw from his pension and learn a little humility. His wife wouldn't have to work her fingers to the bone so that they could survive once Michael's income was halved."

Molly exhaled a sudden, loud puff of air. Sherlock turned to her quizzically.

"I see now," she said disgustedly. "You're in love with Anne Brown."

Sherlock turned quickly to gauge the doctor's reaction. He was rewarded for his speed, as he caught the tail end of a guilty flinch on the other man's face.

"I… I just wanted better for her," Bakshi confessed.

"And you thought the way to accomplish that for her was to kill her husband prematurely?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly. Truly, the average person's stupidity was astonishing.

"I told you! I only meant for him to fall ill, and not while he was flying a plane," the doctor insisted.

"And what was Anne supposed to do once her husband was dismissed before his compulsory retirement? How was that helping her?"

"Perhaps she would have realized that her husband was not everything she thought him to be."

"What difference would that have made? You're married, too. Though I suspect your wife is well aware that _you're_ not everything _you_ think yourself to be," Molly rejoined, still very angry.

"Dr. Bakshi, was Anne aware of what your plans for her husband? Did she help you accomplish any of this?" Sherlock asked.

"No!" Bakshi said forcefully, his hands waving frantically, as if he might physically stop any suspicion from reaching Anne Brown. "She never would…. She wouldn't…. She's not capable of something like this. I was the only one who did this. I'm the only one at fault." He hung his head as if the weight of his transgressions were exponentially increasing with each confession from his lips.

"We're going to have to contact the police, if there are still any on duty," Molly said. "Do you want to go explain to your family what has happened while we do so?"

"I have already confessed my sins to them. Are you religious?" the doctor asked them. Molly and Sherlock both shook their heads. "Well, I have recently been reexamining my faith. I was raised a Hindu. While some don't believe that there is such a thing as a punishing hell, a great many of us do believe there is such a place, and it is called Naraka. For people such as I, Yama, the Lord of Justice, will serve us an all-encompassing punishment to expiate for our sins, and it is painful and torturous."

"And you're finding your faith now that you've done the crime. Save it for someone who cares, Dr. Bakshi," Sherlock interjected as he pulled out his mobile, ready to call Scotland Yard.

Bakshi gave a humorless laugh. "No, you misunderstand me, Dr. Holmes. I didn't find my faith after I killed Michael Brown. The day after his death we learned that this planet is doomed. And that was when I lost my faith. Because I do not believe I could be in a greater hell than the one I've so recently entered."

"I believe that hell is called guilt, Doctor," Molly said quietly.

"Quite so," Bakshi said with a weak shrug.

* * *

They couldn't reach the police. London was now well and truly on its own, it appeared. Sherlock had suspected as much; there were no workers to operate the jails and prisons, so he was unsure if an officer really could have taken Bakshi into custody in good conscience.

So, instead, they called Anne Brown and asked her to make her way over the ten blocks from her house to the Bakshi's.

Sherlock and Molly stood to the side and watched as Jwala Bakshi made his damning confession to the captain's widow. They watched as she first laughed in hysterical denial before she sank onto the front garden's small patch of grass. Bakshi tried to go to her, but she kicked away from him before curling in on herself once more.

All the while, Madhuri Bakshi watched from the front window, clutching the curtain with a white-knuckled grip.

Sherlock would have left, but Molly insisted that they wait until Anne regained some of her composure. Jwala Bakshi finally whispered a last "I'm sorry. Forgive me," to her before he slowly went back to his house, closing the door on the devastation he'd wrought.

Some time later, after Molly had helped Anne back to her feet, the three of them climbed into the car Mycroft had provided and they rode the short distance to Eustace Road and the Brown's house.

"I'm sorry," Molly said softly, breaking the silence in the vehicle.

Anne, who had been staring at some middle distance, shook herself out of her gaze to turn and face the other woman, but still, she did not speak.

Molly glanced at Sherlock, who was riding in the front passenger seat, before she addressed the widow again. "I am sorry to give you distressing news. But it _was _necessary. I couldn't ethically or morally pass your husband's death off as natural causes or an accident when it was at best, manslaughter. Isn't that important to you at all?"

Anne sighed. "What do ethics or morals have to do with anything anymore? You, yourself, pointed out that Jwala won't face any legal ramifications. So what was the point of it all?"

It was such a foreign concept to Sherlock: the idea that some people actually believed ignorance to be bliss. He'd felt a small bit of impotent anger at the fact that Bakshi would never have his day in court for what he'd done. That Michael Brown's own, grieving widow might beg to differ was unfathomable.

"The point of it all was that Jwala Bakshi, a man you trusted, killed your husband. Perhaps not in cold blood, Mrs. Brown, but he certainly didn't kill the good captain with kindness," Sherlock reminded her. "Some might argue that that demands, if not justice, at least acknowledgment for the one who claims she loved him best."

He glanced over his shoulder at Anne. She was weeping again quietly, wringing her hands in her lap. "Jwala was my friend. Why would he do that? How do I face losing my husband and my friend in so short a time?"

"As Dr. Bakshi explained to you, though you were a bit overwrought at the time, he thought he was doing you a service. I daresay he thought it the ultimate display of friendship and love," he said matter-of-factly.

Molly sent him a look of warning, but he had no plans to continue. He liked to think he'd matured beyond some of his pithier habits of speaking.

She turned back to Anne and spoke gently. "Do you think, now that we're only a few days away, that you really would want to die not knowing what happened to your husband? You've said he was careful and responsible. While his illness _should_ have dictated his early retirement, doesn't it make you feel a little better knowing his death on duty wasn't inevitable? Because that's a rather heavy weight on your shoulders, too. He took a lot of risks by choosing to conceal his disorder. The plane nearly crashed when he lost consciousness. So many lives were in his hands. At least that wouldn't have been blood on his hands."

Anne continued to stare at her hands as Molly spoke. She didn't reply until the car pulled up in front of her tired, lonely house. "You're right. And I thank you for telling me. It's not an easy thing, and I don't know if it will help me or hurt be in the time I have left. But you are right; I know my husband was still a good, careful man until the last." She nodded to Sherlock, and then she was out of the car, walking slowly up to her door without looking back.

Sherlock noticed Molly shiver slightly, but then she schooled her features and offered him a small smile. "Back to your flat?" she asked. He nodded to her, and the driver turned the car toward home.

* * *

They didn't talk about the case. There wasn't anything to say, really. Perhaps Molly had wanted a closure of some sort, and she'd certainly gotten it, but he doubted she felt any satisfaction in her triumph. He knew he certainly didn't.

Sherlock played the violin late into the night, watching her silhouetted form against the flicker of the fire. She sat on the floor with her cat sprawled in between her legs. She idly stroked his fur, but mostly she stared at the curtained window.

As Sherlock drew his bow along his violin's strings, playing the last shimmering note on a nocturne, he frowned, thinking about the event of the past day. He felt weary and was astounded at how quickly it had transferred from a sort of delirious contentment to a palpably tense sort of exhaustion. Most of it could be attributed to the unlikely resolution of Michael Brown's death, but he also knew that he had to figure out how he could save himself and Molly from the damnation of broken hearts.

He set his instrument down on the music stand, not caring if it was rather precariously perched there. Turning to face the woman who'd so recently become his lover, trying to figure out if she shared any of his trepidation.

Molly must have noticed that his full attention was now focused on her, for she nudged the cat out of her way and pulled herself to her feet. She awkwardly stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, remaining silent as she waited for him to struggle with whatever was bothering him.

He had no idea. He knew he would love to take her back to his bed, bury their naked bodies under the blankets, and move in her and around her. But if Sherlock Holmes had always been good at self-preservation. Perhaps he hadn't previously spent so much time in introspection, but now he was wondering if he was going to somehow manage to hurt them both irreparably in the few short hours they had left.

And how did he reconcile the fact that, in five days' time, she would be dust? So would he. He knew he'd be beyond caring when it happened, but for the first time in his damned life, he felt terrified. He felt dread as he dwelt on the idea that the Molly Hooper who had once lived and breathed and lay in his bed would soon be an ephemeral echo.

Wouldn't it just be easier if he spared them both a little pain before then?

Molly must have read something in his expression. Without his ever uttering a word, she closed her eyes, only briefly, as if she were trying to ward off some of the pain that he could already see tightening her muscles and closing her off to him.

"Of course," she whispered. "Stupid Molly." She reopened her eyes, and their fathomless depths made him recoil.

"No. Not that. Never that," he pleaded with her. He couldn't source the desperation arcing through him, but he knew, somehow, inexplicably, she was the only absolution.

"What else am I, Sherlock? I don't blame you. I made a decision knowing full well that the consequences, no matter what the outcome, would be difficult. I'm only sorry if I made you uncomfortable," she said, refusing to meet his eyes. He watched as tears started to stream from her eyes.

"Please don't think that. Please." Sherlock Holmes was begging. And never before had he so quickly realized just how wrong he could possibly be. But now Molly was moving away from him, walking to the kitchen table.

She still refused to meet his eyes as she picked up his mobile. She quickly located the number she needed and connected the call, bringing it up to her ear. Staring into the fire, it seemed to Sherlock that her tears were flames.

"Molly—" he began, feeling a twin burning in his lungs.

"Hello Mycroft, it's Molly Hooper," she interrupted him, speaking into the mobile. She listened to his brother, who was likely making awkward pleasantries. She didn't bother to answer or reciprocate. Instead, as soon as there was a break, she said, "I was just calling to let you know that Sherlock is ready to come to you and your mother."

Sherlock felt somehow breathless and adrift; unmoored with no buoy in sight.

"Yes, he'll be ready…. No, but thank you for the thought." She frowned as she listened into the earpiece, squeezing her eyes shut tightly at whatever she was hearing. "Yes. Take care, Mycroft. Thank you."

And then she disconnected the phone and turned back to Sherlock. "Your brother is arranging for a private jet to take you to Lille. He'll pick you up at the airfield you're flying into. He asks that you be ready for a car to pick you up in a half hour."

"You're coming with me," he began, but Molly was already shaking her head.

"No. Mycroft invited me as well. But I—I can't. I'll go to John and Mary's, or maybe I'll go see my mum's cousin in Cambridge. I won't be alone. You need this time with your family."

She started down the hall, though Sherlock knew she'd veer off at the stairs and go back to her room that wasn't. He rushed forward, stopping her with a hand on her arm.

"I don't know how to do this. I don't want you to die," he whispered.

She didn't turn to face him as she replied, "Proving once and for all that caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock drew back. "You heard Mycroft say that?"

Molly shrugged. "Well, he was right, wasn't he? Goodbye, Sherlock. Thank you for making this time a happy one for me. It means more than I could ever say."

And with that, she slowly made her way up the stairs. Sherlock watched Molly Hooper until she disappeared out of sight.

* * *

**…**

* * *

**Note:** You all may be about to tar and feather me. Especially when I reveal that there is only one chapter to go. It will probably be up sometime next week, as I would like to have you all finish hating me before the end of June.

Adi did a lot of hand-holding while I was writing this chapter. She was so supportive and had some fantastically helpful suggestions. When I was at my lowest, she talked me down from the ledge. The ledge, in this case, being me writing, "And then Sherlock woke up and it had all been a bad dream. THE END," (Okay, not really, but I nearly rewrote the whole chapter in a fit of pique). Thank you so much, sweetie, for the help and the green highlights!

Thank you so much to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed the last chapter. It has been such a wonderful source of encouragement to read your kind words; I truly appreciate each one of them.  
Again, I received some absolutely kind reviews from guests, to whom I couldn't send personal thanks. Laura, kArA123, and Guest: Thank you to each of you. I truly appreciate your kind words!

Finally, to all who nominated this story for the 2013 SAMFAs (as well as _A Hands-On Approach _and _The Winds are Wild)_, thank you so much. I truly did not expect it, so thank you all for such a lovely, wonderful surprise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** So here we are. Thank you everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. It encouraged me throughout this whole process and the support I received was so wonderful.

I know this is not an easy story to read (especially that previous chapter). I had a hard time writing it, since it's such a dreary setting. It made for some tricky navigation, and I can only hope I managed it adequately; that this final chapter accomplishes what I wanted to convey with the whole story, and it doesn't leave you all with a bad taste in your mouths.

Also, I _just_ learned about thirty seconds ago that this won the 2013 SAMFA for Best Drama in the K-T category (and _A Hands-On Approach_ won for Best Adventure, same group!). I am stunned. I honestly didn't even think anything I wrote would be nominated. Thank you again to all who nominated the story, and thank you so much to the judges for this wonderful honor.

Thanks again for everything, sincerely.

* * *

**_In the End_**

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

_before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were._

_more my life does not leap than with the mystery your smile sings. _

_-e.e. cummings, "dive for dreams"_

* * *

On that last day, some people prayed to their gods or to the Earth. Some people wept. Some people chose willful ignorance, while others sat, frozen in fear and dread. Some even managed to laugh.

Temple and church bells chimed all over the world. Some found them comforting, others thought they sounded a death knell.

Mothers, fathers, children, friends, and lovers embraced each other. Some, who thought they would die alone found themselves welcomed into the company others. Some _did _die alone. Some made peace with that fact. Others did not go gentle into that goodnight.

Philosophies on death either consoled or agitated the world population in those final hours. A few faced the end with gladness in their hearts and songs on their lips. Cries of distress were not the only sounds uttered that day.

The Earth drew its last gasp of breath and then to stardust it returned.

It was terrifying and tragic, but it was fast, the mere blink of an eye.

And it was beautiful.

* * *

He made it as far as the airport.

For the entire ride, Sherlock maintained a desperate hold on the door, to the point that the plastic material under his hand groaned at the pressure. The driver—some unfortunate underling whose job dictated that he spend his final days chauffeuring Sherlock around—flicked nervous glances over at him periodically, clearly afraid that Sherlock was going to throw open the door and fling himself out of the moving car at any second.

The closer they got to their destination, the more and more aware Sherlock became of an acute pressure on his chest. It felt like it might crush him. He tried to breathe steadily, in through his nose, out through his mouth. No gasping. Anything to ward off what felt alarmingly like hyperventilation.

The airfield was small, no more than a single building with an attached tower and a lone runway. He could hardly make it out in the distance. Almost all commercial flights were grounded fourteen days before, stranding thousands of people in the far corners of foreign lands. _Unless you're the brother of an important government official_, he thought bitterly to himself.

It could be said of him that he never spared much thought on the fairness of life. He wasn't a social justice activist. Not because he held definite political opinions that contradicted the edicts of human welfare. Rather, the plight of the downtrodden was not something that often affected him; but he couldn't help but realize that this was perhaps the most exorbitant display of the privilege to which he'd become so inured in his thirty-six years. Here he was, grudgingly boarding a plane bound for France, where he would see his mother and his brother one last time. Here he was, feeling resentful that he had to. Meanwhile, there were millions of people whose lives hung in precarious balance who would never again look into their loved ones' faces.

The pressure on his chest tightened. So did his hold on the door.

They rounded a slight bend in the road, and Sherlock could see the blinking lights of a small aircraft to the rear of the building; the Learjet that would take him away from England for the last time. It reminded him of another plane he'd boarded at his brother's behest, one full of dead passengers. Rather fitting, since he himself was essentially a dead man.

The tail lights of the plane glowed an eerie, vibrant red, their glare a corona cutting through the pitch of night. Sherlock was inexplicably reminded of a portentous saying.

_Red sky at night, shepherds' delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds take warning._

He looked to the console's clock. 12:13 AM.

He couldn't figure out why the the digital readout of the clock suddenly blurred until he felt a tear escape, rolling down his cheek slowly. It reached his chin and then fell to his shirt, landing warmly as the material absorbed it.

And then, like a violin string tightened too far, he snapped.

"No!" Sherlock burst out.

"Sir?" asked the driver.

"No. This isn't what I want. I can't—"

"You're distressed about something? Can I be of assistance?"

"Take me back," Sherlock gasped.

The driver fidgeted nervously, glancing around as if looking for some kind of instruction on how he should proceed. "Mr. Holmes' instructions were—"

It was all Sherlock could do not to deck man. "I don't give a damn about Mycroft's bloody instructions. Take me back to her, now."

Growing more and more flustered, the chauffer replied, "Where's that?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, getting desperate. "Back to Baker Street. I need you to take back to my home."

"I'm not supposed to—"

"I'm begging you," Sherlock interrupted him quietly.

The man looked at the plane and then down at his own steering wheel. Sherlock felt a welling of panic, trying to figure out how he could make it back to Baker Street if the driver still refused. He would steal a car if he had to. He would overpower his driver. But then the car slowed and they pulled over to the shoulder of the road and made a tight turn into the narrow street's opposite lane of traffic.

To Sherlock, it felt like a reprieve.

* * *

When the car pulled up in front of his Baker Street flat once more, Sherlock felt the adrenaline that had fueled his fervor begin to ebb. He looked up to the first floor, hoping for a sign that Molly was indeed still there, that she hadn't left in the hour that he'd been gone.

The windows were dark, the curtains shut tightly to the night. The darkened glass made house look empty, much like all of the others on the street; but Sherlock insisted to himself that he shouldn't panic. Not yet. He told his feet, suddenly leaden with uncertainty and dread, to _move, damn it_.

And slowly, step by step they did.

He let himself in the door, grateful that he'd had the presence of mind to take his house key, even at a time when he thought he'd never have use for it again. It must have been an unconscious decision, he realized. As if his body knew he'd be right back even when his mind had been slower with the uptake.

The house was as silent as it was dark. He couldn't hear Molly moving around on the floor about him, or the murmur of the television, or any other indication that she'd stayed put. _Why should she have?_ He thought despairingly.

But, still, he climbed the stairs. Step by step.

When he reached 221b, he stopped short in the doorway. The fire in the grate had died down to mere embers. They still glowed warmly, but they only cast a meager light a very short distance into the room.

Standing there, backlit by that dull glow was Molly. She faced the fireplace, not moving at all. She must have gone into his room after he'd gone, for she was wearing one of his many dressing gowns. The blue silk dwarfed her, its hem close to dragging on the floor.

That, more than his own wild heartbeat and determination, gave him hope. At least she wasn't indifferent to him, if she was wearing his clothes like mourning.

Sherlock stood there, frozen at the door, overcome by the fact that he was seeing Molly Hooper again. Again after a mere hour, yes, but to a man who'd felt the bereavement of a separation as real as any death, she was like a phoenix, rising from those ashes glowing before her.

He didn't say a word. He couldn't get his voice to work past an obstruction in his throat.

But Molly must have heard him trying to speak, or perhaps she saw a flicker of movement in the mirror above the mantle. Or maybe she just sensed that she was no longer alone. Whatever the case, suddenly, she dove to the side of the fireplace before whirling around, wielding a fire poker like a sword. Sherlock could see, even in the dim light that she was squinting, trying to see the intruder after staring so long at the embers.

He could see the moment she realized who stood before her. Slowly, she lowered the poker, though she didn't let go. Sherlock could hear her breath, shuddering as she looked at him.

Somehow, it was enough for him, and he felt the weight fall away from him, like iron shackles swinging open from around his ankles. He moved through the room, reaching her in four strides. He didn't realize until he stood directly in front of her that, as he'd approached, he was murmuring again and again, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

His arms banded desperately around her, so tightly he spared a thought that she might not be able to breathe, but he couldn't loosen his hold on her. The warm silk of the dressing gown, heated by her skin, thawed him, though he'd not been cold before he saw her.

Molly was limp in his arms for only a second before he heard the fire poker drop to the floor with a clatter and then her own arms were holding him just as tightly, just as frantically. Their mouths met hungrily, and Sherlock felt like there wasn't enough time in the world for his wanting to linger, kissing her. At the same time, impatience licked at him, the desire to map the rest of her face with his lips, to prove to his other senses that she was with him once more.

Sherlock could not think of another time when he'd been so wrong. She fit to him. He was alive because of her. How could he ever think that it was better to spare his self some ephemeral pain? Had he learned nothing when he'd faked his death? Sherlock Holmes needed people very much. A select few, but those few were very dear to him. He thought he had realized that truth, but apparently he had to hurt one of the precious few desperately in order to teach himself that final lesson. The most precious of the few, he now knew.

Crushing his lips harder to hers, Sherlock's teeth cut into the inside of his lips almost painfully. He didn't care. He felt her hands convulsively clutching him and he'd likely bear bruises to match where she'd held him. His own arms had yet to loosen from around her and he gloried in every point where her body touched his.

Finally, she broke away, gasping and shuddering as tears streamed down her cheeks. He set to kissing the salty droplets away, drinking in her pain and disbelief and tentative joy.

"Y—you came back," she whispered.

"I came back," he echoed. "I came back to you." Sherlock smoothed a strand of her hair, stuck to the wetness on her face, behind her ear. He let his fingers remain there, slightly tickling the shell of her ear with his light touch. "I shouldn't have left to begin with. I'm so sorry I did. I want you to forgive me, but if you can't, I understand. Leaving could be worst thing I've ever done."

She fidgeted. Why was she nervous, he wondered. Did she expect him to say, "Just popping back to grab my laptop. Didn't realize I'd forgotten it until almost too late. See you later." Could he blame her if she _did _think such a thing of him?

"You weren't gone for long, Sherlock. What changed between then and now?"

Ah, so he was right.

Sherlock Holmes did something he very rarely considered necessary: he weighed his words before he spoke. But then, it had never felt as important as it did now.

"I made it all the way to the airport," he began slowly. "I could see the plane on the tarmac, waiting for me. And I remembered a conversation I once had with my brother on a different plane, several years ago. The topic of Mycroft's and my exchange is not necessarily what I remembered tonight, but the general theme of my loneliness and how it has the ability to destroy things most certainly is."

He reached down, toying with the belt of his dressing gown secured at her waist, not able to meet her eyes for the next part. "My loneliness _is_ destructive. It's what led me to drugs in the past. It's what led me to reveal State secrets to the wrong person that same night with my brother. And I realized that, tonight… I let it try to destroy what we have because it's all I know.

"Because if I admitted that I need you, that I,"—here, he stumbled over the word, never having used it before—"_love_ you, then all of that loneliness and all of its destruction could have been so different. If I admitted that I didn't ever need the loneliness, then what would it say about the what I've done in my life? I chose the loneliness because I thought it built an indestructible barrier. But I could have been better. I didn't think I could face that, or the fact that I have wasted so much of our time. Soon you'll be gone and the time we spent together will have been for nothing. And it was more than I could bear. I didn't think I was strong enough."

He returned his hands to cup her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "But I think I am strong enough. I think you make me strong enough, because in that short time that I thought I'd never look at this face again, I wasn't sure how I would confront what's coming with any sort of ease. That was a singular thing, after all this time spent with you when I didn't feel any need to linger or dread. I know, intellectually, that I could live for the next three days without you, Molly, but the pain I felt told me that I don't want to."

Molly's breath hitched as he spoke, but she listened carefully, her hands holding tightly to his wrists.

"The only thing I can ask is for you to trust that I have never regretted anything so much as I do letting you walk up those stairs. And how much I regret leaving after you walked away. But if you want me to go again, I will. Please, just tell me."

He stared at her, waiting for her to respond. Tears still leaked form her eyes. He would have felt a crushing worry settle in again had it not been for her thumbs rubbing small circles on his skin.

Finally, _finally_ she spoke. "I trust you and of course I forgive you. You've held my heart for so long, Sherlock. I used to picture what it would be like to be able to love you, to have you love me back. And I never imagined that it would be easy."

He lowered his forehead to hers. "I wish I could make it easy."

She gave a watery laugh. "I don't know if I wish it. It made you who you are. It brought us here. And even though I've known some heartache because of you, I also know what it's like to have my whole body hum with happiness because of you. You've never hurt me intentionally and if this is the worst we face, I'd say we're doing alright."

"Three days left," he mused. "Not much time to mess it up. If anyone could manage it, it would be me, but I promise you I'll try my best not to."

Molly gave him a lopsided smile. "You're wonderful. You'll _be_ wonderful." She moved a hand to the back of his head, gently tugging it down further so she could press a kiss to his hairline. Quietly, so quietly—no more than a exhale, really—she whispered, "I love you."

He used to think of it as a grouping of words used to control people. Manipulation, pure and simple. He'd scoffed at its ability to start wars, ruin lives, and destroy families. But he most certainly didn't feel controlled when Molly said it to him. They'd been dancing toward it throughout their conversation, but when she spoke those words in that exact order and combination, he marveled at how it felt like someone had pressed one of those fire embers to his chest, its heat sparking and radiating outward. It left him breathless.

And the knowledge that Molly Hooper would never use such powerful words to hurt or manipulate him made it the simplest thing for him to lift his head, brush his nose across hers in an approximation of the sweet gesture she'd made to him several times now, and whisper back, "I love you."

He felt a flicker of surprise at how he didn't feel that chafing vulnerability he would have expected upon making such an admission. But then, he thought, perhaps that was the whole point of being able to confess love: with the words was the tacit understanding that a person couldn't be made more vulnerable, and a declaration of love was his way of telling his lover that he trusted her with that vulnerability.

Molly's body shuddered against his before her arms wound tightly around him once more. They stood there, holding each other quietly for what could have been hours but was more than likely only a few moments. Sherlock regretfully drew back, but not before he kissed her again. And again. And once more for good measure.

"Molly, will you come with me to France? I need to see my mother. I would like for her to meet you."

"Can we still get over there?" she asked.

He nodded. "I sent a message to Mycroft and asked him to postpone my flight by a few hours. I told him I'd left something back at the flat that I absolutely needed. He rang me and squawked about it, but eventually acquiesced."

Molly frowned. "Are you saying that the poor driver is still outside, waiting for us?"

"Yes," he replied sheepishly. "I was a bit distracted, trying to figure out how I would convince you to take me back. I vaguely recall barking at him to stay put and then I left him at the curb.

"We probably owe him an apology. But to answer your question, Sherlock, I would follow you to the world's end in a white petticoat," she said earnestly.

"That doesn't seem like the most comfortable travel attire," he considered, "but if that's what you want to wear, then by all means."

Molly chuckled and rose up on her tiptoes, kissing him sweetly on the cheek. "Mary, Queen of Scots said that to… someone. Anyway, I don't plan on wearing a petticoat. But I would like to take my cat, if I might? I can't leave him alone."

He felt a happy smile overtaking his face. "Of course. If you want to go pack your other belongings, I will get him into his carrier."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock and Molly left Baker Street for the last time. He was surprised to feel a pall settle over him at the realization that he was leaving his own home. He experienced new dose of empathy for Molly's melancholy when she faced the same prospect five nights before. Still, this leave taking wasn't with nearly the same level of distress as his earlier departure. He felt he could have been walking to his execution and he wouldn't have minded because Molly was with him.

As soon as they settled back in the car, Sherlock turned to the driver. "I never asked you your name," he realized.

The man looked a little taken aback by the sudden attention, but he gathered his composure quickly. "Neil, sir. Neil Stonehouse."

"Ah, well, I apologize for all of the driving around and waiting you've done for me. I appreciate it, though."

Neil nodded his acceptance as he turned the key in the ignition.

"But I'm afraid I must ask you to make one more stop before we return to the airfield," Sherlock continued.

The poor driver gave a resigned sigh and pulled the car into the sparse traffic.

* * *

Sherlock rang the door buzzer on the flat as a formality, but he began sorting through his key ring immediately thereafter. The tenant likely didn't know that Sherlock had made a copy ages ago, but Sherlock figured the time for secrets was long past.

Just as he was about to insert said key into the front door's lock, he spied a light flicking on through the flat's front window. He quickly stuffed his keys back into his coat pocket and held his hands clasped behind his back, schooling his expression into one of patient affability.

John Watson answered the door, still tying the sash on his dressing gown and blinking at the bright lights bombarding him at that ungodly hour.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing here at two in the morning?" he demanded.

"No time to explain. Do roust your wife out of bed. We have a plane to catch." Really, Sherlock felt like he had his old spring back in his step. And why shouldn't he?

John continued to squint at him, though Sherlock recognized it as more his resting expression when Sherlock did something to baffle him. "Plane? What are you talking about?"

"John, what's going on down there?" Mary's voice filtered down from the couple's bedroom on the flat's upper floor.

"Morning, Mary," Sherlock called up from the foot of the staircase. "I was just requesting that John wake you up."

"Requesting… that's rich," John muttered. Sherlock ignored him.

Soon, Mary joined the two men in the flat's small foyer. She managed to look a bit more alert than her husband, though her short, blonde hair stood on end in a few places. "Sherlock, as much as I adore seeing you, I really hope this is important," she said in greeting.

He offered her a perfunctory smile before launching into explanation. "We are on our way to catch a plane to France; to my mother and stepfather's house for the next three days, and I had hoped that you two might join us."

"Us?" John asked, still dulled by sleep, if Sherlock's opinion were asked to weigh in on his friend's slowness.

"Molly's waiting in the car," he said with a wave of his hand in the general direction of outside. How had they not cottoned on to _that_?

The Watsons nodded in understanding, painfully slowly. Sherlock wasn't sure they appreciated the immediacy of the situation. "We really must get going. The plan is set to take off in an hour," he pressed.

"And why are we expected to go?" John asked stolidly.

Sherlock thought he might have actually shuffled his feet bashfully, when remembering that early morning visit in the next few days, though he dearly hoped he hadn't. "I just thought it would be… nice. If we were all together one last time." He refused to meet their eyes as he said it.

"What if we want to be in our own home when the end comes?" his friend rejoined.

"Well if that's what you wish," Sherlock said slowly, feeling his euphoric mood wilt slightly. He couldn't say he blamed them. Everyone was resorting to his or her creature comforts now. Home familiarity was no small consolation. It just happened that Sherlock's solaces were John, Mary, and Molly.

Mary and John exchanged a look. Finally, John sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "Give us a few minutes to gather some things. We're bringing the dog."

Sherlock felt buoyed once more. "I am sure Gladstone and Toby will get along famously."

* * *

The quartet unloaded their luggage and pets, eyeing the Learjet parked exactly where Sherlock had last seen it. As they handed off their belongings to the plane's pilot, who grunted a greeting to them when they arrived, Sherlock noticed Molly staring out across the tarmac. He called to her, and she shook herself out of her stare and moved to the plane's stairs.

Soon, the plane was racing down the runway and pulling up into the predawn sky. It was the fastest takeoff Sherlock had ever experienced. Funny what a dearth of competing planes could do for air traffic clearance.

As the plane banked, turning east, Sherlock heard Molly give a small sigh as she stared out of her tiny window.

"What is it?" He asked her quietly. She had been quite happy to see John and Mary, and her mood had been rather even until they reached the airfield.

"This is the last time we'll ever see London. I know there are lots of lasts right now, but I guess this one is hitting particularly hard," she explained. Sherlock peered around her, looking at the city's twinkling lights. From up there, the city looked as it always had, untouched by dark or despair. London had always been his home and he now felt a pang as he realized Molly was right. At a loss for what he should say, he merely flipped up their shared armrest and put his arm around her, pulling her closer to him. As he pressed a comforting kiss to her brow, he saw both Mary's and John's eyebrows shoot up in almost comical synchronicity.

"Oh, yes," he said casually, not relinquishing his hold on Molly, though he had a sneaking suspicion that he was blushing. How mortifying. But there was nothing for it. Needs must and all that. "Molly pulled my head out of my arse."

"Whoa there, what you do in the bedroom is your own business," Mary said drolly, but Sherlock couldn't describe her smile as anything other than beaming.

* * *

They landed on a remote strip similar to the one from which they'd departed. France was just seeing the first rays of sunrise and it shone through the morning mist that coated the ground. The air was still chilled, and their breaths misted out in front of them as they deplaned.

Sherlock spotted his brother standing beside a nondescript, black car. Though his duties had to have wound down to nearly nothing, Mycroft still wore his uniform of three-piece suit and a perpetual air of impatience. Sherlock noticed his brother's face register momentary surprise at the extended party that emerged from the jet.

Ever the consummate diplomat, Mycroft did not bemoan the unexpected group. Instead, he merely smiled thinly and commented, "It might be a tight fit on the ride back to the estate. I do apologize. Sherlock did not inform me that you all would be joining him."

Sherlock adopted a mockingly placating expression and said, "Don't worry, Mycroft. If you're claustrophobic, I would be happy to drive while you walk home."

Mycroft merely arched a brow at his brother while hitting a button on his key fob to open the boot.

They piled into the vehicle and made the short trek to the Holmes-Sevigny estate. Sherlock took it upon himself to critique every aspect of his brother's driving. "You've gone soft with all of those chauffeurs, Mycroft. I do believe you completely ignored that lane merger back there."

Mycroft asked Sherlock if he wouldn't be more comfortable with a jumper stuffed in his mouth. Sherlock suggested that Mycroft could probably recommend a good density of wool, since knitting and gags were really more his forte than Sherlock's. John suggested that they both shut up, and the remainder of the car ride was spent in silence.

They reached the sprawling grounds that hosted Violet Holmes-Sevigny's home. Sherlock had never lived there, himself. His mother had remarried when her younger son was in his mid-twenties and had immediately moved over to France, the native country of her new husband and birthplace of her own parents.

Sherlock had no complaints about his stepfather. The man and he hardly knew each other, really, but in the handful of times that they'd met Sherlock had ben unable to find anything wrong with him. An author by profession, Jean-Luc Sevigny was an old-money inheritor who dabbled in fiction writing. He was a far cry from Sherlock and Mycroft's biological father, Siger, and that was only a good thing, Sherlock had decided after the first time he met his mother's then-betrothed. Jean-Luc and Violet had what she assured her sons was a whirlwind romance, and Sherlock had no reason to suspect that first blush had worn off in the ten years since their marriage.

When they reached the front of the large mansion, Sherlock rolled his eyes at his companions' cooing and gasping over the splendor before them. It was nothing new to him. He'd grown up in a rather opulent setting and his mother had merely transferred that opulence to her adopted country.

The enormous front doors of the main house opened and a tall woman hurried out and down the front steps, her husband following behind at a more sedate pace. The Holmes family had never been one to rush toward each other, but Sherlock's mother had always been far easier with her affections than her sons. Sherlock had last seen her four months prior. He had tried harder in the time since his faked death to spend time with her and bridge the gap between them. They'd made some inroads, but Sherlock still felt the distance between him and his mother keenly.

He slowly climbed from the car, glancing to see if the others had followed suit. His mother reached them just as the last car door closed, and before Sherlock was fully aware of what she was doing, she had her arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug. And then she released Sherlock with on of her arms and reached over to Mycroft, who'd just walked around from the driver's side, and yanked him into what Sherlock was certain was the most awkward group hug in the history of humankind.

He and his older brother eyed each other as their mother held on to them. Though she would deny it, Sherlock saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. She was more sentimental, not overly emotive, after all. Violet adopted the quintessential, British "stiff upper lip" principle. He wisely remained quiet.

Drawing back a little, Violet smiled up at him. She was attractive in an understated way. Her hair was still the dark, mink brown of her youth, with a few strands of gray shot through, lending to her quiet dignity. Sherlock could see his own eyes looking back at him. In his younger days, when he'd catch glimpses of himself in the mirror, he'd always been glad that he took after his mother more than his father.

Siger Holmes had been a hard man, not necessarily abusive but most certainly not kind, either. After Sherlock revealed to his mother that he'd discovered his father's numerous infidelities, Violet and Siger went through a messy divorce. Violet tried her hardest to leave her two children out of it as much as possible, but Siger had had no such qualms. His sons were quite firmly on their mother's side in the proceedings, which made their father's relationship with them that much more bitter. Siger went on the marry two more times before dying of a heart attack in bed with one of his many mistresses. Sherlock had vague memories of his father's funeral, but it came at the height of his drug addiction, so he really remembered impressions more than the actual event.

He didn't miss him.

In spite of his feeling no lament for Siger Holmes, it hadn't helped that Sherlock's father's death came at the same time as when Violet had effected the most distance between herself and her younger son. Sherlock had tried not to let on that he felt abandoned, but Mycroft had been his main caretaker at a time when Sherlock was just a scared twenty-year-old boy wishing for his mother.

He knew that Violet regretted it. He'd even felt some empathy for why she hadn't handled Sherlock's illness with little grace. At times, he'd been a terrible junkie, cruel and caustic while angling for his next score. But there were times when he hadn't been a complete monster, and his younger self had had trouble reconciling why she distanced herself even at those moments. In more recent years, he avoided thinking about it at all, afraid of what he'd realize about himself if he dwelled on those memories.

When Violet began reaching out to him again after his last successful stint in rehab, Sherlock had shied away. He wasn't unkind, but he buried himself in his work, certain that it was the only thing to keep him sane and sober. Now, as he stood in his mother's embrace, he thought again about wasted time, much as he had with Molly.

Violet turned to her unexpected guests, offering them a polite smile.

"Mother, you remember John Watson?" Sherlock asked. The two had met on one other occasion when John and he were flatmates. It had been an unremarkable visit, though John had later commented that he was stunned that someone so lovely could raise someone so swotty. Sherlock had played his violin particularly screechily for several days after.

Violet nodded. "It's nice to see you again, Dr. Watson."

"John, please. This is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is Violet Holmes-Sevigny," John introduced.

The two women shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. As they spoke, Sherlock sought out Molly, who lurked a little to the side of the main group. He moved over to her and, just as Violet turned expectantly to this last stranger, took her hand, weaving his fingers between hers.

He took a deep breath. "Mummy, this is Molly…. My Molly."

Violet drew up short, blinking, looking back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. Even Mycroft did a double-take, much to Sherlock's satisfaction. Then he was distracted by his mother hurrying the rest of the way to them, looking suspiciously misty again as she clasped Molly's free hand in both of hers.

Sherlock was certain his own smile was just as shy as Molly's as she spoke to his mother. He would take time later to cringe at how stereotypically _normal_ the entire introduction was. Taking the girl home to meet Mum for the first time. It was only strange because this was the first and only time it would ever happen for him. But as he watched Molly say something that had his mother laughing brightly, he couldn't feel too self-conscious about it.

After Violet introduced the newcomers to her husband, they filed into the house. Proving that she was a flawless hostess even at the end of the world, she gave them a tour of the house and continually asked Molly, John, and Mary if they needed anything. Sherlock could almost pretend they were there for a weekend house party and nothing dire or cataclysmic.

The group spent the rest of the day companionably. They sat around chatting, and Sherlock was pleased that he didn't feel any restlessness or need to be doing _something._ He watched as Molly and his stepfather formed an unlikely pair. Finally, she'd found someone with a gleeful appreciation for her morbid sense of humor, and she spent the afternoon regaling him with stories of some of her grimmer pathology cases while everyone else did their best not to cringe at the unorthodox conversation.

Everyone began drooping over a late evening meal. Sherlock felt his own body grow heavy with a sudden exhaustion. His mother noticed her guests' fatique and waved them all away from the table before they'd even finished eating. The two couples trudged up to their respective bedrooms.

Sherlock looked through the window into the night before turning back to watch Molly as she shucked her clothes with absolutely no grace and collapsed face-first in the middle of the bed. He chuckled quietly before following suit. He curled around her body, reaching over her to turn off the lamp on the bedside table, enveloping the room in warm dark. His eyelids drooped as he ducked his head to kiss her mouth already going lax with sleep.

He mused on how the day had been so very strange and so very wonderful as he drifted off.

* * *

He woke the next day early enough that he could hear no other movement from the house. He was content to linger for a while where he was, cuddled in with Molly, who slept on. She wasn't a snorer, he noted. She did make murmuring noises on a occasion, but quietly. Sherlock pushed down a flickering of sadness over all of the facets of Molly's sleep habits that he would never discover.

As he watched her, she stirred. Her brown eyes looked back at him fuzzily as a sleepy smile curved her lips. "Hello," she whispered.

He didn't reply with words. Instead he reached up to trace a hand across her cheek as he leaned in to kiss the corner of her smiling mouth. She turned her head so that their lips met fully, and then she pushed on his shoulder until he rolled over onto his back. She followed him, hitching a leg across his and coming to a stop when she sat on his thighs. She leaned over him, her hands braced on either side of his head. Sherlock he looked up at her, taking in the way the morning light filtering through the window made a corona around her. Turning his head, he pressed his lips to the soft skin of her forearm before returning his gaze to hers as he smoothed his hands up her thighs, across her hips, his thumbs tickling the softness of her belly before continuing up her ribs and under her arms so that he could tug her back down to lie on top of him.

They made love quietly, the only noises in the room their hitching breaths, the rustling of sheets, and the slight creak of the mattress as they moved together.

After, they lay with their legs tangled together while Sherlock combed his fingers over and over through her long hair. The light moved across the ceiling, the only sign of time passing all too quickly.

Soon, the rest of house stirred and Sherlock knew that he and Molly couldn't hide away in their room until the end of time. He dragged himself out of the bed and away from her warm arms, stumbling to the bathroom for a hasty shower. When he reemerged, Molly was still lying in the bed, covered only by a sheet. He watched her wiggling her toes and stretching as he dressed. It was such a new thing for him, that he could feel and enjoy this swelling in his heart as he watched her doing something so completely innocuous.

She turned her head and smiled at him before she expelled a gusty sigh and flung back the sheet. She rose from the bed, sauntering over to where he stood buttoning his shirt. "Allow me," she said with a lecherous leer. He let her finish fastening the buttons, enjoying her as she batted her lashes exaggeratedly up at him. When she finished, she curled her fingers in the shirt's collar and pulled him down so that she could lay a smacking kiss on his lips. "You'll do quite nicely, I think," she murmured against his mouth.

As she turned away from him, Sherlock decided he wanted to be playful in turn, but he fretted he might not know what he was doing. Still, he gave her backside an experimental, light swat. Molly jumped in surprise and grinned at him over her shoulder. He tried to adopt an approximation of her earlier ogling expression. She let loose a mad giggle before she darted away and disappeared from sight in the bathroom.

Sherlock was a little stunned to realize his cheeks hurt from how widely he was smiling. He tried to wipe it from his face as he made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Nevertheless, John, who sat with Mary at the breakfast bar eating a piece of toast, stopped mid-chew on seeing Sherlock's face. "I am going to need more than two days to get used to that," he muttered.

Sherlock scowled at him as he pulled a mug from the cupboard, but he couldn't fight the smirk from returning when his back was to his friends while he poured himself a large dose of coffee. He was spared from having to think of a snappy comeback by his mother and brother arriving, entering the kitchen through the glass door that opened onto the house's sprawling back garden.

"Ah, good morning, Darling," Violet greeted Sherlock. "I hope you and Molly slept well. Will she be down soon?"

He nodded in greeting as he sipped some coffee from his mug. "I believe she will shortly. She was in the shower when I left to come downstairs," he replied.

"I was thinking we should all go for a walk and have a picnic lunch by the Lys," his mother continued. Sherlock's nose crinkled, and he saw Mycroft pull a similar face out of the corner of his eye, before, as one, they smoothed their expressions into looks of mild interest when their mother turned to them. The Holmes brothers were not exactly outdoorsmen. But Sherlock figured he'd endured worse in his time than a mosquito-ridden picnic, and Mary and John were busy expressing genuine enthusiasm for the idea. He'd be outnumbered even if he had voiced his true opinion on the matter.

* * *

The group departed en masse two hours later. They strolled for some time along the riverbank before they found a shady spot that Violet deemed suitable for their picnicking purposes. After they'd eaten their fill of sandwiches and other finger foods, they stayed where they were. Even Sherlock had to admit that the warm sun and swishing sounds of the river were a welcome change from all of the madness in London that they'd left behind. He sat on the corner of the blanket they'd laid over the grass, weaving a long piece of grass through his fingers.

He watched as John and Mary stood at the water's edge, tossing chunks of bread to a group of mallards that had happened to float past. Mycroft typed away on his phone while Jean-Luc and Molly sat huddled over a notepad, discussing some anatomical anomaly that Sherlock's stepfather was incorporating into a story.

"I really like your Molly, Sherlock," Violet said, sitting down beside him on the blanket. He glanced at his mother, smiling slightly before returning his gaze to the woman in question. "You met her through your work?"

He nodded. "She was the only pathologist at Bart's who would work with me. The others refused after too many run-ins with my personality. Molly was always willing to help me. Frequently doing tasks well below her pay-grade, if I'm honest."

"And she fell in love with you? That's rather romantic. Don't flinch, it's true," Violet chided.

"She fell in love with me," he confirmed, unable to keep the bafflement from tinting his words. "She's extolled my virtues a few times, but I'm still not sure why she chose me."

Violet chuckled. "You wouldn't be my boy if you wooed her with a silver tongue."

"She should have run screaming, but she was never anything but kind and supportive. When I 'died', she was the only person, other than Mycroft, who knew it was all a ruse. She helped me, and then she hid me."

His mother flinched at the reminder of the time when she thought she'd lost her child. "Is that when you fell in love with her?" She asked.

Discussing _love_ with his mother: it was not something he ever imagined happening, and yet, there they were. But he couldn't dredge up a caustic comment about the sentimental rubbish of it all. Not when discussing Molly or what was in him for her. "No. Well, perhaps a little, yes. Before…. I was _aware_ of her in a way that I hadn't ever been of anyone else. But she had me figured out like a puzzle without my being cognizant that she was even watching."

"So when did you realize that you loved her?" Violet pressed.

Sherlock tried to pinpoint it. He could say thirty hours ago. But that wouldn't be quite true; he couldn't articulate it until then, but he'd loved her well before that moment. He could say last week, but he'd still been very much in the dark at that point. "I honestly don't know. To me, Molly is like a… a warmth that I've had in my chest for a long time. It started out small, but has gotten bigger and bigger. But I didn't even realize how much I wanted that warmth until I almost lost it."

He glanced again at his mother. Eye contact during such a frank conversation would be too much, but he hazarded a look, somehow still a young child wanting his mother's approval. He frowned when he saw her looking down at her hands, clasped in her lap while she blinked rapidly, trying to keep tears from falling. "Mum—"

"I don't know what's wrong with me. The way you speak of her makes me so glad, Sherlock. But it reminds me of how much I've let you down, that you're only experiencing loving someone like that _now_."

He looked out to the river, tracking a floating branch as it floated with the current. "To be fair, I think I did a rather good job keeping something… keeping _Molly_ at bay without any help from you. My inability to see any advantage in love was probably a parting gift from Siger Holmes."

"Yes," Violet choked out, "But I didn't help you like I should have. I didn't remind you that love can still be a beautiful, vital thing. And I left you alone when you most needed the reminder that_ I_ love you."

"Again," Sherlock said, uncomfortably, "I didn't make it easy. And I've had some time to think about it in the past few days, and I've realized that you didn't give up on me so much as accept it when I didn't _let_ you be my mother. And that is a world of difference, to me at least."

She nodded, tears dropping into her lap. "Thank you. And please believe me that I am sorry, sorrier than I've ever been about anything else."

"And I'm sorry, too. For… frankly, for the first thirty-six years of my life," he murmured.

Violet's laugh was a bit watery, but it was a laugh. "They weren't all bad. I remember when they put you in my arms for the first time. Mycroft always took after your father, but you opened your eyes and looked at me for the first time—already so serious, my Sherlock—and I thought to myself, 'he looks like me.' I loved your brother with all of my being, but holding this baby who was so clearly my son was a joy I had never thought I would experience.

"And there were so many times when you made me laugh and amazed me, and there were times when you were unbearably sweet. I just lost sight of that at times. But I need to tell you that you make me proud. And I _do_ love you."

Sherlock looked away yet again. But slowly, he reached out across the small distance between them on the blanket and took his mother's hand in his and squeezed it.

* * *

Earth's last day began with the sun shining on cheerful daffodils and dappling leaves with its light. The wind ruffled grasses growing tall in fields and sky was full of fluffy, benign clouds.

No one was sure if animals would know something was amiss before the actual event, but they showed no instinctive response in the hours leading to the end. Birds still sang, cattle lowed, and their calls remained calm.

It would have been unnatural for the mood to be anything other than melancholy on the Holmes-Sevigny estate. They tried to affect a forced brightness and avoid counting down their final hours. They played card games and together prepared an enormous, mid-afternoon meal. Well, everyone but Sherlock prepared the meal. He wandered from person to person, offering his opinion on how he or she was accomplishing each task, until Molly walked up him, handed him a bowl of dough, rolled up his shirtsleeves for him, and told him to start kneading. When he tried to dissemble, she reminded him that she had lived with him on and off for three years and knew for a fact that he could cook and bake quite well. He shot her a look of wounded betrayal for revealing what was perhaps his closest-guarded secret, but she remained unmoved and left him to his assigned task.

After they ate more than was even remotely comfortable, they retreated to the sitting room. They didn't speak much. Eventually, Sherlock picked up his violin and together he and Mycroft moved over to the piano. As Sherlock tuned the violin and Mycroft played a soft piece to warm up his fingers, the two brothers glanced at each other. Sherlock studied his bow, not wanting to spark Mycroft's ire. Something had been bothering him for the past forty-eight hours, and he wasn't sure how he should broach it.

"If you want to say something, Sherlock," Mycroft said, not looking up from the ivory keys, "then by all means, say it."

Sherlock frowned, but took the invitation. "Are you frightened?" He hadn't broached it with anyone else, not even Molly or John. He wasn't certain why Mycroft was his chosen confidante, but he tried to disguise his discomfiture by pulling some resin from his violin case and running it along the horsehair of the bow. He doubted his brother was fooled by his act, but it was more for his own sake than anything.

Mycroft's brow wrinkled minutely. Sherlock doubted anyone registered it, not standing as close to the older Holmes brother as he was. If they did see it, the others would have likely thought it was over a puzzling passage of music. "I try not to dwell on things that are beyond my control. I've been near death before, and I find it helps not to think on it too much. This time it is almost a certainty, so I can only hope it's quick."

His younger brother's frowned deepened. "I have Molly. Mummy has Jean-Luc. Do you… do you wish you had someone with you now? And don't give me a speech about caring too much. I am asking you, Mycroft Holmes, not the government official."

Mycroft stopped playing altogether, his hands falling to his side on the piano bench. "I haven't thought about that side of me for a long time, Sherlock. I managed to shut it off quite effectively. But to answer your unasked question, I was in love, once. His name was Robert Smythe. We were young recruits in MI6 together, part of the first wave of post-Cold War agents. We broke several rules to be together, and I convinced myself I was happy with keeping it a secret. When he died in 1999, I was never certain if it was something that could have been prevented if he and I had just had the strength to ignore what we felt. I never tried to move on; rather, I decided to compartmentalize him. And in that compartment is where he shall stay."

Sherlock felt a new sorrow swamp him, one he had not expected. "I am sorry," he stuttered, at a loss for how to address his filial regrets.

Mycroft offered him a rather gentle look—gentle for Mycroft, at least—and said, "I am not lonely, brother. I have a room for that loneliness, and Robert is in there, too. Do you remember the Kreutzer Sonata?"

Sherlock recognized that the conversation was over. He nodded and brought the violin up to his chin and, together, he and his brother began playing their duet.

* * *

When the sun began to sink into the west, everyone in the house gathered in front of a large picture window, silently watching the sky's pinks, oranges, and reds bleed into each other. Together, they all watched the sun dip beneath the horizon with one, final glimmer. And then, as one they turned away from the window and began the slow trek to their rooms.

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a long handshake. Sherlock clapped his free hand to his brother's shoulder, and Mycroft mirrored him. They nodded to each other before letting go. Mycroft gave his farewells to each person, and disappeared down the hall to his bedroom.

Raw though he was, Sherlock smiled at his mother, embracing her and kissing her cheek. She wept as she kissed him, her arms holding him to her tightly. Jean-Luc came up to him and held out his hand to Sherlock, who clasped it firmly. The older man smiled kindly and said, "I wish you happy, my boy. You are a good man." Sherlock could only nod in thanks.

Soon, only John, Mary, Molly, and Sherlock remained in the hall. They stood facing each other, and Sherlock couldn't bring words to his mouth. While John and Molly hugged, he accepted Mary's kiss on his cheek as she whispered her thanks to him for her husband for Sherlock being such a wonderful man. His eyes began to burn as they drew apart. Mary and Molly went into each other's arms, huddling together as Sherlock turned to look at John.

They watched each other silently and then John cursed and reached forward, pulling Sherlock to him in a fierce hug. The two men stood there for several, long minutes before they pulled apart for the last time. The burning moved to his chest as he looked at the face of his best friend, the best man he had ever known.

"It has been an honor, John Watson," he whispered.

John drew in a gasping breath before regaining his military bearing. He nodded and said, "Likewise, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt Molly's arms come around him in a tight hold as John and Mary disappeared into their bedroom.

Together, he and Molly moved to their own room, closing out the rest of the world gone mad with a click of the door latch.

* * *

"What do you regret?" She asked, gazing at his face. They lay on their sides in the middle of the ornate bed, facing each other.

He looked down and took her hands, tracing the lines on her palms with his fingers. "It seems pointless to think about it. What will it accomplish to rehash every _what-if_ now, other than to make us feel worse for what we're losing?"

Molly didn't follow his gaze. Instead, she continued to watch his face as she replied. "I guess nothing. But I'm still thinking about it, whether we say it out loud or not."

Sherlock's eyes finally met hers again. He shifted closer to her so that he could now feel her chest brush his each time she inhaled, and the tips of their noses almost bumped when he spoke again.

"What do you regret, Molly?" He barely whispered it.

"I have dozens or regrets. A lot of them are silly. Most of them aren't. That I'm dying young, just like my parents. That I spent so much of my time worrying about idiotic things. You know, the typical clichés," she sighed. "I regret that I didn't have more time with you and that I won't get to see what we could have been. I won't get to grow old with you, if that was in the cards for us. And if it was, what our life would have been like. I'll never know if we would have had babies or just spent another fifty years driving each other mad, happy being just Molly-and-Sherlock."

Sherlock reached up to smooth a thumb over her brow as he considered her words. And then he started imagining it. "Then grow old with me now," he said, haltingly. He didn't regret his words; he just was unsure how to suggest something so daft.

"What?"

"We're going to live, and stay together for _at least _fifty more years. What will happen? Tell me."

"Sherlock, that isn't—"

"Tell me."

Molly looked at him quietly for only a moment before she started talking. "We'll get married next year. Nothing fancy, just a quick, five-minute ceremony with a magistrate, our friends, and your brother. I'll carry a small bouquet of Gerbera daisies that you'll buy for me from a flower stand on our way to the Register's Office. They look so cheerful, and I'll tuck one into your breast pocket. I'll wear my mum's wedding dress. It's a bit dated, but it's simple. Perfect for us. Mrs. Hudson will cry through the whole ceremony. So will John, but he'll try to hide it, manfully."

Sherlock snorted a laugh as she went on. "I'll stay Molly Hooper. I like my last name; it was my parents' name, and I'm published under it. But I imagine that isn't something that will bother you much."

Sherlock shook his head in agreement, then arched an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

Molly thought on it before she began again. "We'll remain here at Baker Street, for a few years, at least. Mrs. Hudson will love having us nearby. It'll only be awkward for a little while before she realizes she needs to knock before she bursts in here. That sofa is just too inviting for lovemaking. Poor dear won't know how to face us for a bit, because we're rather inventive."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, then chimed in. "I will do my best to remember important dates. I have managed to remember your birthday already, so I'd say I'm off to a good start. It's lucky you've never been one for parties, because I'm sure I'd fall short in that area."

Molly chuckled, thinking about Sherlock offending all of their party guests five minutes into the hors d'oeuvres. "Very true," she murmured. "I'll like the quieter celebrations with just you."

Sherlock continued, "But I know I'll still manage to make you mad sometimes. You'll probably make me mad, too, but I somehow doubt with the same frequency. When I do mess up, I'll do my best to make amends quickly. I didn't have a very good model of healthy arguments from my parents, so I hope you'll be patient with me and teach me."

She nodded her agreement, then moved on. "We'll find out we're going to have a baby not long after our… second anniversary. It'll have been plenty of time for us to enjoy each other before we have to start figuring out how the hell we can be parents, too."

Sherlock shifted his hand between then, so that the backs of his fingers brushed against the flatness of her belly. "I never thought I'd want children. But I think I do. With you. We'll have a girl with your brown eyes. What will we name her?" He asked.

"Courgette," she replied immediately.

She couldn't keep a straight face at his horrified expression. "Just kidding! Is there a name you're partial to? Something from your family? I've always thought that babies shouldn't be named directly after someone—give them a chance to be their own people. But there's something to be said for tradition, too."

Sherlock had to dredge up long-forgotten memories of the Holmes family tree. He'd gotten in trouble with his tutors too many times to delete the information permanently. Then, he remembered, some Victorian, great-aunt. "Ava."

"Ava," Molly beamed at Sherlock. "It's perfect. She's going to be wonderful. She'll be so smart. Socially awkward, the poor thing, but considering her parents, she'll be surprisingly good at making friends. We'll both teach her all sorts of useful things. I am already dreading the chemistry experiments you two will design and what they'll do to the flat."

He grinned at her, but rushed to allay her fears. "Well, those will come in time. But I'll start her on more basic kitchen chemistry. Baking biscuits and cakes. Then we'll post whatever we bake in anonymous packages to Mycroft."

Molly attempted a stern look but couldn't quite manage to quell a laugh. "He will love her. He'll try to act aloof and severe, but he won't be able to resist her charms. She'll probably talk her way into and out of all sorts of trouble with _everyone_. I shudder to think of the level of security detail her uncle will place on her.

"John and Mary's children will be a similar age, so our family dinners will be mad. Hopefully that kitchen chemistry you plan to teach her will take good hold, so we can make Ava do all of the cooking."

Sherlock agreed, "What reason is there to have children other than the socially acceptable, free labor they provide?"

They both giggled at their drollness. Molly fiddled with a button in the middle of Sherlock's shirt as she considered him. "Do you think you'll be one of those overbearing, stereotypical fathers who threatens to shoot his daughter's boyfriend when she starts dating?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled with distaste, as he replied, "No, I think not. To be fair, I threaten to shoot a lot of things, people included. But our daughter won't have much patience with the type of idiot who needs threatening, so it's a moot point."

"Very true. What'll we do when she's gone off to University?" Molly asked.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her a bit closer as he thought on it. "Besides once again feeling free to wander around our house naked, you mean? I've always thought a quiet home in Sussex Downs would be just the place to spend my retirement. I've a mind to try some apiculture."

Molly almost laughed at the thought of Sherlock in a beekeeper's bonnet, but wisely kept her amusement to herself. Just as she was about to respond, a rumbling in the distance began, low and foreboding.

Her hands spasmed against his chest.

The cat crept out from under the bed, jumping up on the mattress and curling up against Molly's back. This somehow steadied her breathing and she continued, speaking evenly. "I'll still consult on some pathology cases here and there once we've moved. But it would be fun to keep a garden and have time to read actual novels, not just pathology books. And you'll still drag poor, old John out on exciting cases. Mary and I will laugh that you two actually use the word 'retirement' earnestly."

Sherlock's arms tightened around her even further. There was now no space between their bodies. He pressed her face against his neck as he coiled her hair around his hand. "And when we're old, we'll still be together," he said, speaking his promises into the shell of her ear. "We'll be like those old couples I used to sigh impatiently about when I'd find myself walking behind them. You'll insist on holding my hand, and I'll grumble about it, but I want you to know now that I'll secretly relish it. It'll be the main reason why I insist that we go for our slow, shuffling walks every day."

The rumbling grew, and the glass panes of the windows started to shake, and noises of breaking drinking glasses from the kitchen filtered through the closed door.

Molly slid her arm under Sherlock so that she could lock him to her with her interlaced fingers at his waist. She found her breath coming in quicker gasps, but still, she managed to speak. "One of us will die before the other. It won't be some creepy, _Romeo and Juliet_, joint-death-pact. But you or I will follow soon after whoever goes first. My grandmother only lived for another year after my grandfather died. She didn't give up. She just was ready, after living a full, happy life. And that's how it'll be for us. We'll both die peacefully. It'll be soft, in our sleep. I'll be thinking of you. You'll be thinking of me. We'll be thinking of our beautiful Ava. Thinking about how happy we were."

The creaking floorboards groaned and started to shift, rattling the bed.

At this, Sherlock did gently pull her head away from his neck so that he could look at her. He traced the lines of her face with his eyes, imagining wrinkles where there were none. "We had a wonderful life together. Didn't we, my Molly?"

The rumbling was now a roar of sound and shaking. Tiny fissures started spreading out across glass before it started to shatter outright. Books rattled loose from the shelves, falling to the floor, their pages fluttering on impact. The wood and plaster framework of the house started to buckle

Everything was violence, except for the man and woman holding each other on the bed.

Molly felt as if she were looking through a kaleidoscope. The tears clinging to her lashes split the many colors of Sherlock into different facets; the pink of his lips, the brown of his hair, the alabaster of his skin, the blue-green of his eyes. They all danced apart before merging back into the whole of his beloved face.

As she moved forward to press her mouth to his, she whispered, "Absolutely wonderful."

Their lips met. The gentlest of kisses.

And then all was an echo.

* * *

_beyond sorrow's own joys and hoping's very fears_

_yours is the light by which my spirit's born._

_yours is the darkness of my soul's return_

_-you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars._

_-e.e. cummings, "dive for dreams"_

* * *

**_fin_**


End file.
